


Genesis

by thedragonagelesbian



Series: The Way to a Woman's Mark [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol, Canon-Typical Violence, Homophobia, Lesbian Character, Lesbophobia, Multi, Rite of Tranquility, The Chantry, Tranquil Mages, Trans Female Character, im gay so i get to write about homophobia in dragon age and cishets dont
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2019-06-05 00:09:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 44,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15158192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedragonagelesbian/pseuds/thedragonagelesbian
Summary: Two weeks before the start of the Divine Conclave and the day before she leaves for the Temple of Sacred Ashes, Bann Trevelyan's chosen representative and youngest child Gwendolyn finds her world turned upside down when she learns her twin brother Glendower has been made Tranquil. As she scrambles to save her brother's life, she must contend with betrayal, blackmail, a loss of station, and a painful crisis of faith... and that's before she even wakes up in a cell in Haven with a strange glowing mark on her hand.





	1. The Sun Rose on the Army of the Faithful

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back on my bullshit with my lesbian Dragon Age OCs because my GOD does this fandom not have enough of them (especially in Dragon Age "no f/f ships in the top 10 AO3 ships" Inquisition).  
> ....unfortunately I do not actually know who she is going to end up with. I'm waiting to feel out her relationship with the eligible Inquisition ladies (which includes Cassandra and SPOILER MYSTERY WOMAN). However, because I don't know who our protagonist will end up with, I've decided to keep the story's other relationships under wraps as well. Ship & character updates will occur more or less as they appear in the story.  
> Until then, your guess is as good as mine as to who our protagonist will be with. And in the mean time, I hope you enjoy Gwen and her story! I've had a lot of fun with her so far. :)

 The Chantry of Ostwick was an incomplete thing.

The irony escaped few- that the self-proclaimed center of the Chantry’s power in the Free Marches congregated in a half-finished building. The sheer number of faithful who spent their days in the church made construction dangerous, and the thought of relocating to a less opulent and more built site while it was completed bordered on blasphemy for the proud nobles.

So the Chantry remained half-finished.

The nave was the most complete part. Mostly walled and roofed, it sported rows of dark pews, a dozen white columns, and the standard staples of any Chantry. Tapestries emblazoned with suns, red candles smoldering along the aisles.

But it wasn’t totally finished. The right aisle had never been walled, never been roofed. The columns went up, and the floor gave way to bleached tiles damaged by the sun, but after that was just grass. Grass and earth and flowers and finally, several yards away, the Trevelyan Estate.

There had been no candles in the right aisle, no places of offering or to stow alms, before Gwendolyn Trevelyan. But at age 13, she had insisted, and few in Ostwick could recount a time when the bann’s youngest daughter had not gotten what she was after. So a row of candles was set up for her, and at dawn almost every morning since, she conducted her prayers there.

This morning was no different. As the first soft rays of sun began to flush the sky pink, Gwendolyn Trevelyan stepped out of the estate and onto the dewey stretch of grass between her home and the Chantry. There had been a time when her parents tried to have a corridor built between the servants’ back door and the church. They said it was to protect her. From what, she had never ascertained, but she had fought the proposal hard.

The kiss of the wind on her cheeks and the wet seeping through the soles of her golden slippers were proof that she had won that battle.

The Chantry was quiet this early in the morning. Two Mothers stood in the apse chatting quietly with a templar, while a noble recited his prayers in the left aisle. Gwen watched them for a moment before picking up the broom leaning against one of the columns. One of the conditions of this place being given to her was that it would be hers to look after. Hers to keep clean.

As she cleared away the last of the dust and leaves the wind had swept in, the door opposite the apse opened. Gwen looked up as Grand Cleric Lydia strode into the nave. Young for the position she held, regal and severe, clad in black vestments lined with gold and a small red sun above the hollow of her throat. Gwen felt her breath hitch as Lydia caught sight of her and began walking towards her. Trying not to look like she had been staring, Gwen glanced away and busied herself with setting the broom against the column once more.

“Lady Trevelyan.”

Gwen turned quickly at the sound of her name. To no surprise, the Grand Cleric was standing behind her, and yet Gwen felt her cheeks warm. “Your Grace,” she murmured, bowing slightly, dipping her head.

“My dear, there’s no need for that.” Lydia touched her fingers to Gwen’s chin, nudging her head up with bone-white bony fingers which smelled like sweet dirt and elfroot. She always came in from the garden at dawn. “You and I are about to spend a very long time together, after all.”

Gwen’s throat tightened, and she licked her lips. “Just twelve days, Your Grace.”

“Twelve days and however long the Conclave drags on for,” she replied with a thin smile. “We should be on a first-name basis, don’t you agree?”

Gwen licked her lips. “Then you should call me ‘Gwendolyn’, not ‘Lady Trevelyan’.”

The Grand Cleric’s smile widened. “As long as you call me Lydia.”

Gwen offered a small smile of her own. “As you wish.”

“I do wish it. Don’t allow me to distract you from the Maker any longer, though. We will be seeing enough of each other starting tomorrow.” With that, Lydia brushed past her and began walking towards the apse. Chewing on the inside of her mouth, Gwen forced herself to turn away. To kneel before her row of candles, reach into her pocket, and pull out her firestriker. To strike the flint and steel together until a flame caught in the wicks of one of the candles. To pick up that candle so she could light the others and begin her prayers.

“Oh, Gwendolyn.” Gwen nearly dropped the candle as Lydia approached her once more. “I almost forgot- are you alright?”

Gwen blinked. Her mind scrambled to find something to help her understand what prompted such a question, such a sudden shift in the other woman’s voice. “Is this because I missed my prayers yesterday?” It was the only thing she could think of. “I had to come in later; Father was holding a court trial for a smuggler at dawn, and he asked me to attend.”

Now it was Lydia’s turn to blink. “I was curious about that, I admit, but that wasn’t what I was referring to. I was talking about your brother.”

A prickle of anxiety raised the hairs on the back of her neck. “Forgive my ignorance; I don’t know what you mean.”

“You haven’t heard?” Lydia asked. “After Knight-Commander Caitlyn visited your father and I, Idris said he would tell you. I assumed he would have by now; if I had known he hadn’t, I wouldn’t have brought it up.”

A chill raced down Gwen’s spine. “Why- what… why did Caitlyn visit you?”

Lydia shook her head. “I should not have said anything.”

“What did she want?!”

“Our permission.”

“Your permission to do what?!” Gwen didn’t know when her throat became so constricted, when her chest became so tightened and heavy. When she blinked, she saw flashes of her brother’s face against her eyelids.

“To make your brother Tranquil.”

Lydia continued for some time after that ultimatum, no doubt expressing her sympathies. Her pity. But Gwen couldn’t hear a word of it over the sudden pounding of her heart, the rush of blood in her ears. She watched the woman’s lips move as her mind moved sluggishly to supply her with sunburst brands and empty eyes in hollowed bodies and soft-spoken whispers of obedience.

“...andle. Gwendolyn! Lady Trevelyan, the candle!”

Hot red wax scorched Gwen’s thumb, and she dropped the candle with a gasp. Pain shot through her hand, and she inhaled sharply, swallowing the swears on the tip of her tongue hard. But in a way, the pain was good. It got her out of her head. Back to reality.

“Gwendolyn, are you alright?” Lydia asked, touching a hand to Gwen’s shoulder. “Would you like me to get one of the healers?”

“ _No_.” She recoiled at the touch of the woman who had helped do this to her brother. “I don’t- how could you?! How could you let them—?!”

“It is not our place to question what the Maker has in store for us,” Lydia said as she reached for Gwen’s arm again. “The Maker granted Caitlyn an authority over mages which even I must defer to. I said I would reconsider if your father protested, but he did not.” She paused to squeeze her arm. “You have my deepest sympathies, Gwendolyn.”

Gwen sucked her breath in, clenching her jaw tight. There was bile in her throat and a thousand foul words and curses on her tongue and tears prickling in her eyes. But this was not the time or place for any of them. _Keep it together._ “Thank you, Your Grace.” With trembling hands, she reached for the candle she had dropped, the wick now extinguished. “I am sure the Maker, in his infinite wisdom, guided you and my father to the right decision.”

But just how “right” she thought that decision was became evident when she dropped the candle again. _Keep it together, dammit damn you you have work to do._

That forced the tremor out of her hands. She put the candle back in its row and went for her firestriker next.

“In time, you will also realize it was the right decision,” the Grand Cleric assured her.

“Yes.” Gwen pocketed the firestriker and stood. “Yes I think I will. In the meantime, it just occurred to me that I have some planning to do before we leave for the Conclave tomorrow, which I forgot about. I must-” _Keep it together!_ “I really must be going. I will conduct my prayers later today.”

“Take all the time you need, my dear, and I will see you tomorrow.”

Gwen had to twist her fingers in her skirt, bunching and squeezing the heavy fabric just to keep from smacking the woman before her across the face. _Focus._ “Yes. Good day, Your Grace.” Without waiting to hear a response, Gwen turned on her heel and marched back across the grass towards the estate.

Composure. She had to maintain her composure. Grand Cleric Lydia could be trusted to be discreet as long as Gwen remained in her good graces, but the politicians of the Ostwick court? They could not see how deeply she was unnerved. And if she did not hide it, she might succumb to it, and then there would truly be no hope for Glendower.

There was no point in spending time speculating, asking herself how this had come to pass. How she could have stopped it. Whether or not her twin brother had given the templars some sort of justification for their actions. There was no justification for this, and regardless of how it had come about, this was their reality now. All that mattered now was fixing it.

So Gwen moved swiftly through the corridors of her father’s estate, each step carrying her closer to her bedroom. She unlocked the door and went to the lockbox attached to the underside of her vanity. Unlocking that as well, she pulled out dozens and dozens of letters from Glen. Tucking most of them into her pocket with the firestriker, she unfolded the most recent one, dated two weeks ago.

 

_Gwen,_

_I am not sure how much longer the Ostwick Circle will hold. Every day, there are new stories in the halls of rebels waging war against the Chantry. It seems every month brings another fallen Circle, and I fear we will be next. I have heard the whispers of sedition within our walls, despite my best efforts to stamp them out. I do not know what the future holds for myself or the Circle, but I am scared. I pray to the Maker every day that He will make things as they were, that He will protect this Circle from the madness that has seized all others, that the templars will not one day find cause to rightly slaughter us all._

_Please come visit me soon. I would love to see you before you leave for the Conclave. If you cannot make it to the Circle before you leave, know that I love you, and I wish you all the best in helping to right this world once more._

_Yours,_

_Glendower_

 

Gwen read the letter again. And again. The text was straightforward enough, but she needed to find something else. Anything else. A hidden message. A glimmer of hope. Some sign that could indicate that the last true words she had of her brother were not only filled with fear.

But finding nothing on her fifth read, she pocketed this letter as well. If Glen believed there was such a real chance that the Circle could fall, then he could not stay there. What had become of the Tranquil of the fallen Circles had been largely left out of the reports Gwen had read, and she would not consign her brother to that fate. So he had to leave the Circle, and he had to do so soon. Before Gwen returned from the Conclave.

Before she could plan out her next step, she heard a knock on the door. The noise sent her pulse skittering once more. “Who is it?”

“You beloved brother, of course!”

 _Caerwyn._ A far cry from ‘beloved’, and even farther from the brother Gwen wanted to see. “Whatever could you possibly want, Caer?”

“Do I have to want anything just to see my darling sister?”

Gwen let out a heavy sigh, but she knew Caer. He was visiting her with a plan, and he would not leave until he had executed it. Better to deal with him now than allow him to become a nuisance. Like shooing a fly out of the room. She strode across the room, unlocked the door, and opened it.

Caerwyn stood in the hallway, leaning against the wall in a deep violet doublet with gold inlays. His pale lips were pulled into a smirk against his curdled lily-white skin. “Ah, there we are.”

“What do you want?” Gwen repeated.

“Snippy today, aren’t we?” Caer commented.

“I have a great deal to attend to before I leave for the Conclave tomorrow,” Gwen said, relishing the falter in that cocky look of his. “Unless, of course, you are here to tell me that Father changed his mind, and you are to represent the Trevelyan family instead?” The smirk was gone, replaced with the beginnings of a scowl. “No? I didn’t think so. Now, if you have something of importance to say, I would love to hear it,” Gwen stepped forward to move past him, “but if not-”

“Wherever could you be off to in such a hurry?” Caer interrupted, leaping from his perch against the wall to block her. “Perhaps on the way to the Circle to visit that _thing_?”

Gwen bristled. “He is not a thing; he is our brother.”

“It’s not like he cares about what I call him,” Caer replied, “or anything at all these days.”

“...how do you know about that?”

“Why,” Caer revealed his glittering white teeth, “Father asked me to counsel him when the Knight-Commander came to ask for his approval.”

“He asked _you_?” Gwen echoed as she felt her heart plummet.

Caer feigned interest in his nails. “Yes. He considered bringing you in as well, but we both agreed it was really for the best that you not be involved. After all, how could you possibly think about the question of punishment objectively?”

Uneasiness coiled in her stomach, and she clenched her skirt tight. _I could have stopped this._ “If it weren’t for you—”

“You might have stood a chance of stopping the Templar Order from delivering due justice upon a dangerous mage, yes, yes.” Caer rolled his eyes. “But you didn’t, so whatever are you thinking of doing next, hmm? I don’t suppose you might be planning some sort of jailbreak?”

“Whatever conspiracy you are trying to accuse me of, I assure you that I haven’t had time to formulate any plans,” Gwen insisted. Not enough time, anyway. “My attention has been wholly consumed by the Conclave.”

“It would be political suicide,” Caer pressed forward anyway. “If the Court ever found out that you were harboring a criminal, or that you helped him escape? The man who has been planning insurrection for years, indoctrinating the apprentices of the Ostwick Circle into his heretical, anti-Chantry agenda and provoking them, _children_ , into rebellion against the templars so he would not have to fight them himself? Is this really a man you want to publicly sympathize with, brother or no?”

Gwen’s breath hitched in her chest. “Is that really what he did?”

“It’s what he confessed to.”

“It is not public sympathy if no one knows.”

At that, Caer’s face changed. The cocky smirk twisted into a sad smile, into something akin to pity. “But dear sister, someone already knows.”

For a moment, Gwen considered asking “who” just to allow herself a moment longer, a second more to process what had just occurred. What she had just been threatened with. Throat strained and voice tight, she whispered, “What do you want, Caer?”

“What I’ve wanted from you ever since you crawled out of Mother and became the family favorite,” Caer hissed, the smile dropping from his face, his eyes turning to steel. “I want you to tell Father you are no longer interested in becoming bann, and when you go to Ferelden for the Conclave, you can’t come back.”

Gwen swallowed thickly. “You can be bann, but I won’t leave my home.”

“You will,” Caer snapped, stepping closer, crowding her into the door. “I won’t have you staying here so Mother can marry you off to Starkhaven, so you can continue being a threat. Besides,” in a moment, the anger was gone, the condescending smile back, “even if you can live with the ruin to your reputation- and I doubt you can, but still- the Court is no place for a Tranquil. They’re rather… vulnerable.” He reached out to touch her cheek with the back of his hand, smirk widening. “Just like you.”

“Don’t touch me,” Gwen hissed. She shoved Caer hard, and he went stumbling backwards. He was lucky she didn’t push him hard enough to knock him to the ground. “And don’t you touch Glendower either, or I swear with the Maker as my witness, I will kill you.” She let out a shaky sigh. Ferelden. She could make Ferelden work. Somehow. But not if Caerwyn tarnished her political reputation. “I will go to Ferelden and stay there. After the Conclave, I will send a letter to Father telling him I do not intend to be bann and that I will stay in Ferelden, but I will _not_ recommend you in my place.”

Caer glared at her from behind his thick blond bangs. “Fine. Fine.” He let out a sigh, and the anger leached from his face. “I am _so_ glad you could see things my way, just this once.”

The anger did not leave Gwen quite as quickly. She would have some sort of revenge for this. For daring to threaten her and Glendower. But anger would not get her twin brother out of the Circle. It would not magically materialize a house in Ferelden. It would not keep them safe.

So she sighed as well, once again composing herself. “Indeed. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really do have much to attend to before the Conclave.”

“When you send the letter to Father, I will send you a considerable sum of sovereigns to help you get your new life started,” Caerwyn offered.

“Thank you for the charity,” Gwen said calmly, “but I do not need it.” _I have never needed help from you._ “Now, please excuse me.” This time, she did not wait for him to allow it. She strode past Caerwyn, deliberately shouldering him as she brushed by him. It almost wasn’t fair; he was as thin as a matchstick, no match for Gwen’s broad shoulders. But damn did it feel nice.

Moving to Ferelden was yet another complication, but it was one she could attend to after she was sure Glen could move with her. So for the time being, she put it out of her mind. Later that evening, she would pour over maps of Ferelden, restrengthening her knowledge of both its geography and its sites of power. Highever. Redcliffe. Denerim. Amaranthine. In the hours before leaving for the Conclave, she would begin to sketch a plan. She would remember the Queen’s open sympathy towards the mages in the Mage-Templar war. She would know she made a sympathetic case, as the caretaker of a living casualty of said war. She would chart the road from the Temple of Sacred Ashes to Denerim so she could make her plea for support.

But that would not be for hours. For the moment, she put the entire question of what to do after the Conclave aside. And instead, she went to the Circle.


	2. According to the Plans of His God

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a small note, there won't be a regular update schedule for this fic like there was for 'A Game of Wicked Grace'; I had a lot more of Wicked Grace written when I started posting it, but this will be a much longer fic, and in order to keep myself motivated, I've instituted a policy of not posting a chapter until I finish a future one. I'm currently nine chapters ahead of what's posted, and it's going to stay that way until the end.
> 
> With that said, please enjoy the next chapter! More brothers. More scheming. More Chantry being the Absolute Worst. (And a free shoutout in the next chapter to anyone who can figure out what the Ostwick Circle architecture is based off of.)

 The Ostwick Circle was housed in a squat, cylindrical building. Its insides had been hollowed out, replaced with a circular courtyard and garden. In the center was the templar’s tower, which doubled as both their living quarters and their watchtower. It was the only place in the Circle with any privacy, for the rooms lining the rest of the building were walled with glass on the side facing the courtyard.

As Gwendolyn was escorted through the garden to the tower, her gaze lingered on the shallow rooms perpetually laid bare. The thin library wrapping around the entire first floor. The private chambers where mages young and old worked or ate or slept or lived without templars breathing down their neck— but all of them looked up regularly to confirm that there was still a templar standing at the top of the watchtower, doing what people at the top of watchtowers do best.

A shiver crawled down Gwen’s spine.

Usually when she visited the Circle, the first thing she did was find Glendower’s room. Third floor. Directly above the crystal grace plants. Distinguished by its tapestries hung across the back wall- one with the white horse of House Trevelyan, the other with the red sun of the Chantry. For a moment, she almost sought it out. She looked to the crystal grace bush with its pale blue delicately-sculpted flowers and blood red filaments, and she began to drag her gaze upwards.

But at the first sight of that sun-emblazoned tapestry, she was reminded of what she would find. She shuddered again and looked away, twisting her hands in her skirt.

_ I will have to see it eventually… but I don’t want to. Not until I can’t any longer. _

Gwen and her templar escort, a new helmet-hidden face whose voice she didn’t recognize, came to a halt at the base of the tower. The templar grabbed a key off his belt, unlocked the door before them, and led her inside. The door opened onto a narrow, quiet,  _ dark _ hallway. There was something unnervingly comforting about the sudden confinement and darkness, as compared to the bright openness of the courtyard they had come from. Gwen let out a sigh of relief as they began to walk down the hall.

For several paces, they were alone. Then, a door on the left opened just as they were passing it. Gwen barely moved out of the way in time.

“Lady Trevelyan!” Knight-Captain Harrin stood in the doorframe. He was an oddly kind man for a templar, always wearing a smile against his dark brown skin. He was smiling now. “I don’t think we were expecting a visit from you.”

Gwen answered his grin with as polite a smile as she could muster. “I didn’t expect to be visiting myself, Knight-Captain, but when I heard what happened to Glendower, I had to see him before I left for the Conclave.”

Harrin’ smile faltered. “Understandable, my lady. It is such a shame.” He shook his head. “For as long as I’ve been here, he’s always seemed like a decent man, and an even better mage. Disciplined and level-headed. One of the good ones. You and the Trevelyan family have my deepest condolences.”

“The good ones? Harrin, don’t make me laugh.” Gwen craned her neck and saw Knight-Commander Caitlyn standing behind him- a wizened pale woman with a perpetual scowl on her face. “They’re all trouble, all rotten to the core. It’s only a matter of time before we’ll see it in all of them.”

Gwen swallowed hard and dug her nails into her palms. “Most all of them, perhaps, Knight-Commander.”  _ But not all. Not Glendower. _

“That wasn’t what the bann thought last night,” Caitlyn replied, “but please, don’t let us keep you from seeing your brother. Vince, get her where she’s going.”

“Yes, commander.” The templar escort began walking again, and with a deep breath, Gwen followed.  _ Soon, Glendower and I will both be free of her. Soon he’ll be safe. _

Vince led her into an empty, windowless room lit by handful of scattered candles. Bookshelves lined the walls, and plush armchairs occupied the center of the room. A study of sorts. “Wait here,” he commanded. “Your brother will be down soon to see you.”

With a nod, Gwen sunk into one of the chairs as the door closed behind Vince. In the agonizing minutes of waiting, she occupied herself by running her fingers over the arms of the chair. Drawing patterns in the velvet. Listening to the reverberations of the door die down. Feeling her heartbeat spike every time footsteps approached- and relax once more as they receded.

But eventually there was no recession. Eventually the footsteps were followed by the sound of the door opening. Gwen leapt up at the noise, and she held her breath tight in her chest as the door swung into the room, first revealing Vince. Her lungs began to burn, her blood pounding in her skull, and she watched on the verge of tears as he stepped to the side.

Behind him was Glendower.

Her eyes went to the brand first. How could they not? How could she ignore the red sun now burned into her brother’s forehead? The skin still bright and puffy, peeling at the edges of the brand. Every Tranquil she had seen had brands that had healed over, dulled, and faded. Never this raw, burnt flesh, the exact color of the sun as it appeared on Chantry tapestries. Blood red.

And then, of course, there were his eyes. 

If the eyes were truly the window to the soul, then Glendower’s eyes had become the stained glass window into the void.

She still remembered the morning when they woke up to discover their once-matching brown eyes were matching no longer. His irises had turned yellow, tinged with red around the pupil- a shift marking the magic in his veins. But regardless of their color, he always had a spark of curiosity in them. A twinkle reflecting his need to know everything.

And now his eyes sat in his skull like dull colored glass. Nothing in them. No needs. No wants. Just emptiness. 

His pupils shifted slowly until they landed on her. “Oh, hello Gwendolyn. I did not realize you would be visiting me today.”

_ His voice… Maker’s breath, his voice…  _ Gwen swallowed thickly, willing herself to have a moment of composure. Just one more moment. Just long enough to turn to Vince and say, “Could we have some privacy?”

“Of course, Lady Trevelyan.” He gave Glen a push into the room and shut the door behind him.

Gwen staggered forward the moment the door had shut. She flung her arms around her brother and pulled him close to her chest. He did not resist, did not move, not even to return the hug as tears began to slide down Gwen’s cheeks. “Glen.” She shuddered, nails digging into her brother’s back. “Maker’s breath…”

“Gwendolyn you mustn’t cry,” Glen said, voice steady and monotone. “There is no need to be so upset, and no point to it either. What is done is done.”

“No  _ need? _ ” Gwen echoed, voice cracking. She took a step back and grasped Glen’s shoulders. Her fingers curled into his robes as she fought the urge to shake him until she saw some sign of her brother in that blank, empty face. “No.” She let out a wet shudder of a sigh, and a shiver raced down her spine. “No, you’re right. What’s done is done; crying won’t help fix it.” She released Glen’s arms so she could rub at her face with the heel of her palm.

“Exactly.” Gwen expected to see a smile flicker across his face- that smug smile he wore whenever he had proven a point. When it didn’t come, she had to choke down another sob. “I am glad you understand that; I tried to explain it to Arvis, but he was too distressed.”

“Arvis?” Gwen scrubbed her eyes, dislodging the last few tears. “Who is Arvis? And what- what happened? Why did they do this? Caer said you…” the words snagged in her throat as her breath caught in her chest; could it possibly be true? “You provoked apprentices into rebelling.”

“Ah. That is what I told the templars,” Glen said.

Gwen blinked. Some small part of the tension in her body drained; something very slight loosened in her shoulders. “Then what really happened?”

“My two apprentices rebelled on their own accord, despite my repeated attempts to dissuade them from such a foolish and dangerous venture. When they were caught, rather than watch them be killed or become Tranquil, I told the Knight-Commander I had orchestrated the entire affair.” He paused. “Apparently she had been looking for a popular and well-respected mage to make Tranquil, in the hopes of permanently squashing rebellion in the Circle. My lie presented her with the perfect opportunity.”

In a way, this was worse than him being guilty. She was prepared to save her brother’s life regardless of his crime; no matter the evils he had committed, no matter if he deserved to die for them, he did not deserve to be reduced to this husk of a being. But there were no crimes, and there were no evils. Just self-sacrifice. And that was far worse.

“You couldn’t just be selfish, could you?”

“No.” Again, she expected- wanted,  _ needed _ to see some change in his face. A knowing, reassuring smile, a lift of his eyebrows, a shift in his eyes. And again she got nothing, just an empty stare and more monotonous rambling. “As for Arvis, he and I were colleagues- friends, even. Though with the benefit of a clearer mind, I believe he was romantically interested in me, and I in him.”

“Was?”

“I cannot say how he feels about me now,” Glen replied. “I have not seen him since last night, after his hysterics proved disruptive and the templars locked him up.”

Gwen nodded slowly, and the beginnings of a plan swirled in her mind. “The Knight-Captain will surely release him if I ask, and he can help you escape.”

“Escape?” he said. “I have no intention of escaping; I am quite content here.”

“You only think that because you’re Tranquil,” Gwen said flatly.

“I was content here before I became Tranquil.”

Gwen let out a soft huff. “You may be content, but you’re not safe. When the Circle falls, you’re going to be in danger.”

“I will be in danger if I escape.”

Gwen barely stifled a groan. Arguing with her brother had been difficult when he was just a smug smartass, when he wasn’t actively arguing against his own best interest. “If you stay here, no one will be looking out for you when the Circle falls. No one will spare any effort to save you. But if you escape, if you come to Ferelden with me, I’ll look out for you.” She took his left hand into her own, squeezing gently while the other hand brushed away his bangs. Her thumb drifted across the inflamed brand. “I’ll keep you safe until we can find a cure for this. You trust me, don’t you? More than you trust anyone else in this blasted Circle?”

“I do trust you,” Glen said softly. “I suppose if the Circle’s fall is inevitable, it would be best to have an escape plan in place.”

Gwen sighed and squeezed her brother’s hand one more time. “Thank you. Now,” she released him, “since you were a terrible liar before you became Tranquil, I can’t tell you my plan, but I will get you out of here soon. I promise.”

Though she wanted a smile, she had learned by now she would not get it, so as Glen said, “I am sure you will”, she strode past him. She opened the door and peered into the hall. Vince was standing a few feet away, eyes already on her. “Anything you need, Lady Trevelyan?”

“I’ve finished talking to my brother,” Gwen replied. “You may take him back to his quarters.”

Vince nodded and began walking towards her. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

Gwen pretended to think about it for a moment as she stepped away from the door, allowing Vince inside. “Actually, now that I think about it, if it wouldn’t be too much of a hassle, I’d like to speak to a friend of his- a mage named Arvis.”

Vince shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Ah. Arvis. I’m sorry, my lady, but I don’t think the Knight-Commander wants anyone to see him right now.”

Gwen smiled politely. “I understand- of course, what Caitlyn doesn’t know won’t hurt her, will it?”

The young templar rubbed at the nape of his neck. “Lady Trevelyan—”

“Vince,” she interrupted, voice soft and sweet, “consider it a favor for me- for House Trevelyan. You must be a man of some ambition; the Templar Order is for life. A favor like this, from the house of the Bann of Ostwick? It could come in handy down the line.”

He didn’t look convinced. Perhaps he could tell she felt a little bad about it, wielding a power and influence she knew full well she wouldn’t have access to in a few days, using them to make promises she knew she couldn’t keep.

But for Glen, she could deal with feeling a little bad, so she pressed harder.

“Listen, we both know Knight-Commander Caitlyn isn’t going to be around for too much longer. In a year or two, there is going to be a reshuffling of power in the Order. Knight-Captain Harrin will take her place; some Knight-Lieutenant will take his.” She paused to offer a simpering smile. “Would you like to take theirs? Knight-Lieutenant Vince?”

Vince licked his lips slowly and nodded. “You can have five minutes with him.”

Gwen allowed her smile to widen. “Excellent.”

Within several minutes, Glendower was gone, and the young templar had brought Arvis in his place. To Gwen’s mild, and misplaced, surprise, Arvis was an elf, and a Nevarran elf at that, if his taupe skin and black hair were any indication. The skin around his wrist was chafed and red, and he scowled at Vince as the templar shoved him into the room. At a second glance, she realized his irises were colored lilac.

“Five minutes, Lady Trevelyan,” Vince warned before stepping out once more.

“Five minutes, Lady Trevelyan,” Arvis echoed, voice soft but with a mocking edge.

Gwen swallowed, the bite in his voice disturbing her. “Arvis. My brother told me the two of you were close before he became Tranquil, yet he never mentioned you in his letters.”

“Is that a surprise?” Arvis asked. “We keep any semblance of privacy we can get.” He paused, eyes shifting over her. “I can’t say I blame him; I wouldn’t want my sister to know about my friends either if I knew she would let the templars Tranquilize me.”

“I didn’t—” Gwen felt like the air had been knocked from her lungs. “I swear to you if I had been there when the Knight-Commander went to ask for my father’s permission, I would have stopped this.”

“Yes, you would have stopped one instance of the Templar Order’s abuse of power; what a saint.” Arvis rolled his eyes. As he continued, he turned away from her and began to pace about the room. “Your House is the one who funds the Chantry in Ostwick, who has the Knight-Commander’s ear and the Grand Cleric’s heart.” Small blue swirls began to sprout in his palms, dancing up to his wrists, seeping into his skin until the raw red marks were gone. “You are a part of everything the Ostwick Chantry does, including that. You condone  _ all _ ,” he gestured vaguely around him, “of this.”

Gwen’s breath snagged in her throat, fingers curling into her skirt to keep from digging her nails into her palms until they bled. Was he right? The churning in her stomach, the pulsing of her heart said yes, said she had played some part in allowing this to happen, not just to her brother but to countless mages. But her minutes were wasting away as she processed this, as she came to terms with this. An she could not let Arvis leave without convincing him to help.

So she sucked in her breath, and through gritted teeth, she said, “Well, do you want to get out of ‘this’?”

He stopped pacing, glancing back at her. “What do you mean?”

“I am prepared to help you achieve your freedom,” Gwen stated, “in exchange for helping Glendower escape as well. We both know he won’t survive if the Circle falls, so we have to get him out. You know this Circle better than I do, so finding a way out of it will be on you, but.” She moved across the room, one hand in her pocket. She pulled out her coin purse, a small leather sack heavy with gold. She held it out to Arvis, who eyed it dubiously. “I can arrange for your passage to Amaranthine, and I can provide horses when you get there so you can take Glendower to the Conclave.”

“The Conclave?” Arvis echoed, recoiling from her outstretched hand like it had burned him. “You must be out of your mind if you think I’m going anywhere near that mass of Chantry snakes, or that I would take Glen with me.”

Gwen opened her mouth to protest, to argue that this was the only way to keep Glen safe in the months to come until she could find a cure for this. But before she could say anything, the door opened once more, and Vince was there, tapping his fingers against his arm.

“Lady Trevelyan, he needs to go.”

Gwen let out a sharp exhale instead. “Just a moment.” She closed the gap between herself and the elf, forcing him into an intimate handshake so she could press the gold into his hand. “Please consider it,” she whispered. “If you change your mind, in five days, look for the  _ Sea’s Angel _ in the harbor. Its captain is a smuggler who will soon owe me a favor.”

“Because you’re about to save him from the noose?” Arvis shot back.

“Perhaps.”

“This is a lot of rule breaking for Bann Trevelyan’s darling.”

“Anything for Glendower.”

There was a pause before Arvis pulled away. Gwen watched him pocket the purse, and a slight smile rose to her lips. For the first time today, something was going as planned. “Lady Trevelyan,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “You have yourself a deal.”


	3. It is Already Gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shortest chapter to date, unfortunately :( but we had to get out of Ostwick somehow.   
> Also, I know this fic isn't getting a lot of traffic, and for good reason-- it hasn't been tagged with any ships yet, and you won't get to see a single canon character for a while. Which is to say, if you do read, I would really appreciate a comment or a kudos! Authors LIVE for this shit.

It had been easy to convince Knight-Captain Harrin to talk to the Knight-Commander about letting Arvis out of the dungeon. It had been easy to slip the right words and the right amount of coin to the right nobles to have the captain of the  _ Sea’s Angel _ pardoned and his ship removed from the impound. And it had been easiest of all to slip into the prison and inform said captain of the price for his freedom. 

What was not easy was going to sleep that night. She tossed and turned in her bed, dreams plagued by those hollowed yellow eyes and Arvis’ accusations swirling in her mind.  _ You condone all of this. You did this. _

Nor was it easy to wake up the next morning and sit in front of her vanity, staring at the mirror as she brushed her hair and painted her face even as she was not convinced that she knew the person staring back at her.

Hardest of all, however, was making her pilgrimage across the lawn at dawn and realizing that yesterday, for the first time since she was 13, she did not pray.

She did not pray that day either. 

Instead, she went back to the estate. The ship to Amaranthine was set to leave soon, and before it left, there was to be a procession of people of import from the Trevelyan estate to the docks. Indeed, as she made her way to the chamber where her father held court, many of the procession’s most notable participants were already milling about. Grand Cleric Lydia and Knight-Captain Harrin conversed at one end of the hall, attended to by a pair of Sisters holding pitchers of sweet wine. The Bann of Ostwick stood on the other end surrounded by a larger entourage. His wife Aderyn stood to his left, and Gwen was pleased to see it was not Caerwyn to his right but one of Gwen’s many cousins. Caerwyn stood beside her talking to a woman Gwen had never seen before.

And she was beautiful. Peach-skinned with full rosy cheeks and even fuller breasts, with red hair sculpted into perfect loose curls. Gwen watched, mesmerized, as she reached up with one hand to brush her thick bangs out of her eyes. Long fingers. Well-manicured short nails.

“Gwen!”

She was broken out of her reverie by a sudden hug from her cousin Eirlys. Ten years Gwen’s senior, she had married into House Revena of Wycome fifteen years ago. They had not seen each other since the wedding.

“Eirlys,” Gwen said as she returned the hug. “It’s been too long.”

“Far too long,” Eirlys agreed. “How have you been?” Her hands left Gwen’s back to snake down her arms until their hands were clasped and she was feeling Gwen’s ring finger. “I see your parents haven’t managed to marry you off yet.”

Gwen managed a light, breezy laugh. “Despite their best efforts, yes.” Not wanting Eirlys to push the matter further, she added, “I didn’t realize you would be coming to the Conclave.”

“The Duke of Wycome’s daughter is a dear friend of mine,” Eirlys said as she released Gwen once and for all. “She asked me to accompany her. I wasn’t sure about Ferelden, but we made plans to go to Val Royeaux after this nasty mage business is dealt with, and  _ that _ was simply too good of an opportunity to pass up. My favorite powder producer hasn’t been able to ship to the Free Marches since the war broke out!”

“It really is a shame, Eirlys.” Gwen heard her voice- sweet, soft, and melodic. The red-headed woman was facing them, smiling ever so slightly. Her eyes were green, like the Waking Sea on a clear, quiet day. Her smile widened as she made eye-contact with Gwen, and she offered her her hand. “Lady Sophia Clarisse Rosamund Perreault, Duchess-to-be of Wycome.”

Gwen swallowed hard. This was not the time to be flustered. “We’re using full names, are we?” She took Sophia’s hand and shook it firmly. “Lady Gwendolyn Meredith Rhiannon Trevelyan, at your service.”

“So nice of you to finally join us,” Caer commented, “Lady Gwendolyn Meredith Rhiannon Trevelyan.”

And with that, the good mood brought on by meeting a cute woman she was about to spend the next month with was gone. Gwen released Sophia’s hand. “I suppose I did arrive later than you, Caer,” she offered a patronizing smile; this was almost too easy, “but unlike you, I could have arrived as late as I like, and the procession would not have left without me because I, unlike you, am going to the Conclave.”

“Gwen, Caer, please,” their mother, Aderyn, tutted while Caer was clearly fighting to keep a scowl off of his face. “It is far too early in the morning to be trading barbs, and you’re going to embarrass us in front of our lovely guests.”

“Trading barbs?” Eirlys echoed, practically squealing as she latched onto Gwen’s arm again. “Oh, but last time I saw you all, the two of you were so close! Caer, everywhere you went, Gwen was right behind you!”

Gwen glanced at her brother, who folded his arms and looked away while she shifted uncomfortably.

“Oh, who can say what happened between them?” Aderyn sighed. “A few years ago they started acting like proper siblings, and they haven’t said a kind word to each other since.”

Eirlys let out a melodramatic sigh of her own. “That is  _ such _ a shame.”

“Indeed,” Caer said softly. “But I, for one, am hopeful,” a smirk rose to his lips, and he looked at Gwen once more, “that a little space will do our relationship some good.”

Gwen swallowed thickly, and she became acutely aware of the fact that this may be the last time she was in this room, in this estate, for a very long time.  _ All because of Caer’s fucking pride. _ “We’ll certainly see, won’t we?”  _ But I wouldn’t count on it. _

Aderyn smiled, tight-lipped and strained. “That’s better, children. Now,” she glanced around the hall, which had begun to fill up with Mothers, Sisters, templars, and a dozen nobles not just from Ostwick but from around the Free Marches. There were dignitaries from Starkhaven, lords and ladies from Markham, and, of course, the Duchess-to-be of Wycome and her staff of attendants and friends. Not everyone was going to the Divine Conclave, but most all of them were. For the Free Marchers, this was not simply an attempt to end to a terrible war but the largest social event of the age. And the most powerful city-states would be damned if they did not capitalize on the chaos, so they were all sending someone. Someone significant enough to represent their city and their interests but not significant enough that nations would collapse should they fail to return.

In Gwen’s case, there was no question of ‘should’.

“We should start getting in order,” Aderyn announced. “Kreia!” Her mother’s personal attendant, a mousy elf named Kreia, was by her side in a moment. “Tell the guards to start rounding everybody up. Grand Cleric Lydia, Knight-Commander Caitlyn, and Idris will all be in front. Behind them are the other templars- by rank, of course, and then myself, Caerwyn, and Gwendolyn, and then the guards. Then all the non-Chantry guests- make sure Lady Perreault is at the front of that group. Then the Mothers, Sisters, and any other Chantry folk at the back.” As she spoke, her eyes darted about the chamber, a palpable anxiety forming in the lines of her brow. “Did you get all that?” Without waiting for a response, she started shooing Kreia off. “Now go! Go!”

“Dear, relax,” Idris said with a chuckle.

“Do you not understand how important this is?” Aderyn demanded. “We  _ have _ to make a strong showing of this. With Kirkwall still in disarray, we are the closest major port in the Free Marches to Ferelden. If we pull this off, any one north of us who wants to travel south- Rivain, Antiva,  _ all _ of them will come through Ostwick.”

Idris laughed again. “I never should have let your sister take you to Orlais for the summer; you came back with all these ideas of pageantry and posturing and—”

“Idris, hush, and get to the front doors.” She gave him a small shove before releasing his arm, and that got him to do as he was told. “Children, we’ll be behind the other templars. Come on; let’s move closer to the door.” She grabbed Gwen and Caer both by the arm. “Lady Revena. Your Grace.” She gave a curt bow to Sophia. “If you’ll excuse us.”

Sophia smiled and nodded. “Of course.”

Aderyn began to pull Caer and Gwen off. As Gwen brushed by Sophia, the other woman touched her shoulder and leaned close to her ear. Gwen noted after the fact that she smelled like that sweet Antivan flower. Vanilla. “We’ll talk more later.”

And with that, Gwen was whisked away from Sophia, swallowed up in the frenzy of the parade. 

And just like that, minutes later, Gwen was whisked away from her family home. It wasn’t until they reached the docks that she had the good sense to look back, but by that time, the estate was long out of sight. Gone. Quite possibly forever. She made sure to hug her mother tight in her goodbyes. With her father, she hugged even tighter and longer, hoping in those moments that he would act on the promise Lydia told her he had made. That he would tell her he had her twin brother made Tranquil.

That hug was another in a long series of disappointments.

Finally, she turned to her brother, who regarded her with a blank face except for the corners of his lips, which were turned upwards.

Caerwyn moved towards her, arms open, and she had little choice but to receive him.

“Have fun in Ferelden, dear sister,” he murmured.

“This won’t be the last time you see me.”

“If it isn’t, next time we see each other, I will be Bann.”

She tightened her grip on him until she heard a gasp of pain over her shoulder. “And that’s all that matters, isn’t it? Your title? Your fucking pride?”

“Ever since you stole the title of ‘viscount’ from me?” Caer hissed in her ear. “Yes. And don’t act so high and mighty.” He pinched her right shoulder hard. “I know that’s all you care about too. If it wasn’t, you would be staying.”

Gwen swallowed hard. “I’m not staying  _ because _ I care about something else.”

“What? Glen?” Caer stifled a snort. “Don’t make me laugh, Gwen. Tell yourself this is for that empty-headed waste of space, but I know you care about what this family thinks of you. What this city thinks of you.” He pulled out of the hug but kept his hands on her arms and his face just inches away from hers. “Because if you didn’t, you would have gone the way of our beloved brother Emrys years ago.”

It took all of Gwen’s self control to keep from flinching at the sound of their older brother’s name. Her struggle must have been written across her face, in the widening of her eyes and the tightening of her jaw, because Caer smirked. If they were in private, she wouldn’t hesitate to slap the smirk off his face, but with half of the most powerful Free Marchers watching them? She couldn’t do anything. Caer had won this round, and they both knew it.

Caer withdrew completely, still smirking as he rejoined their father and mother. “Goodbye, Gwen.”

“Goodbye, Caer,” Gwen said. She turned to her parents, trying to loosen her jaw and conjure up a smile as she stared at them. When she couldn’t, she offered them a small bow instead. One last, final goodbye. “Farewell, Mother, Father. I’ll write to you when we reach the Temple of Sacred Ashes.”

Both of them nodded approvingly. “Make us proud, Gwendolyn,” her father said. “Represent House Trevelyan well.”

“I will.”

“I know. May the Maker watch over you.”

“May he watch over us all.”

And that was it. 


	4. Marvel at Perfection, For it is Fleeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a fair warning, the homophobia/lesbophobia tags apply most strongly to the end of this chapter and all but the end of the next one.

The ship was a carrack called  _ The White Steed _ . One of the largest vessels in the Trevelyan fleet, it was used almost exclusively to sail to Rialto Bay and do trade with Antiva and Rivain. Which meant it was almost silly to use it for the quick day and a half ferry across the Waking Sea, but the extra cargo space was necessary. Its passengers had packed such that they would not need to buy anything again until the journey back from the Conclave, and the pack horses alone took up much of the hold.

In that dark, musty hold is where Gwen spent much of her first hours on board. Wandering through crates of cured meats and dried grains, carriages, deconstructed tents, stables of pack, harness, and riding horses alike, and trunks upon trunks of belongings, searching for her own excessive number of trunks. As the saying goes, if you want a job done right, do it yourself- but participation in the procession had been demanded of her, so moving her belongings onto the ship had been left to the elves who served under its captain. And now, she had to confirm that everything had arrived on board. If something she needed had been left in Ostwick, she had to know now so she could replace it in Amaranthine, the last city she would see for a long time.

With only the light of a small oil lamp to guide her, it took some time, but eventually she found her belongings- three black leather trunks, lined with gold and marked with the Trevelyan heraldry across the top, tucked in a corner near the stables. She had four trunks total, but had requested that the last one, full of personal day-to-day belongings, be put in her room for ease of access. Given that it wasn’t with the others, she trusted it had ended up in the right place.

She hesitated for a moment before kneeling in front of her trunks, grimacing as moisture from the dank wood planks seeped through her skirt. She pushed aside the revulsion and rifled through the trunks to confirm that everything she had packed was still there.

One trunk held her battle gear. She felt most comfortable in heavy armor, but packing it had proved impractical, so she had brought simple boiled leathers instead. There were also undershirts, a longsword, a kite shield, and, of course, her weapon of choice: a double-headed, two-handed greataxe. It was most useful when she could rely on her armor to act as her defense, which she could not do in leathers, but she could not have left Ostwick without it either. She traced her hand over the hilt, and the yellow silk ribbon wrapped around it. Ostwick’s master-at-arms had once tied her hair up with that ribbon, until Gwen beat her in a duel for the first time. This ribbon and this greataxe were her first trophies.

_ The first of many,  _ she thought as she closed that trunk and moved onto the next.

The second trunk consisted of Gwen’s additional camping supplies and nonperishable food. The supplies she would use en route to the Conclave were provided by the venture’s organizers- which is to say they were primarily paid for out of the Ostwick Chantry’s coffers. But those were supplies she could not rely on after the Conclave, so she had packed her own. This trunk held the larger of those supplies- a tent, two bedrolls, two pillows, and a lantern.

The final trunk had, among other things, the smaller camping equipment. Pans, knives of various sizes and utilities- from a seax for combat to a small letter opener to a hunting knife with an antler handle- her firestriker, utensils, and rope. It also held some spare clothes for Glen; she wasn’t sure what he would be able to escape with, wasn’t sure if he would be prepared for the cold of the Frostbacks. 

And, finally, between the fabric and the supplies, in the crevices and corners of the trunk, was gold. She wasn’t sure how much money she had, but every coin she had which she couldn’t fit into her purse was in this trunk.

“Everything’s here,” she whispered as she pawed at a thick fur-lined cape, listening to gold clink against the buttons and slip through cracks further down into the trunk. “Maker, this is the one good thing you’ve done for me today.” She paused. Her grip on the soft fabric tightened, and she kneaded at the fur. “Maker… why have you done this to me?”

Footsteps echoed through the hold. Gwen closed the trunk as quickly as she could and scrambled to her feet. She was not eager to appear weak in front of anyone, and the ship’s more politically minded occupants could not see her momentary lapse of faith.

“Gwen?” She saw a lantern moving down the stairwell, and though she could not make out its holder in the darkness, she recognized the voice.

“Lady Perreault,” Gwen said with a nod.

“Please call me Sophia.” The other woman came towards her, until at last Gwen could see her face. Her beautiful, beautiful face. “What are you doing down here?”

“I came to see my horse.” The lie rolled off Gwen’s tongue with ease, largely because it was not entirely a lie. A visit to the stables had been next on her mental to-do list. “He is rather fussy, even for an Imperial Warmblood. I wanted to make sure he was adjusting well.”

“You have an Imperial Warmblood?” Sophia asked. “May I see him?” Gwen nodded and picked her lamp up off of the floor, and together, they made their way through the makeshift stalls. “How did you manage to get your hands on a horse like that?”

“He was a gift from my father for my twenty-first birthday,” Gwen replied. “The Trevelyan family has blood connections in Tevinter, after all, and the breed is, in my experience, unparalleled.” She stopped in front of a stall containing a flea-bitten grey gelding. The horse’s head shot up as she leaned over the door, showing off the white star and stripe running down his face. “This is Winter Star.”

“Handsome,” Sophia said curtly. Winter gave a sniff in their general direction, walked in a circle, and lost interest, prefering to go back to nosing at the woodchips lining the floor. “And it must be nice to know you will be riding your own horse. I’m fairly sure I’ll be in one of the carriages, drawn by a pair of my father’s horses from Wycome, but it isn’t the same.”

Gwen traced her fingers over her tack, kept on a hook next to Winter’s stall. “I’d take a pair of reins and a horse between my legs over a stuffy carriage, any day of the week.”

Sophia’s lips quirked upwards. “I feel the same- but my father is worried about my safety, and we all must indulge our parents’ paranoia every once in a while, mustn’t we?” Gwen nodded. “Would you like to share a drink?”

“A drink?” Gwen echoed. Without any windows, any sight of the sun, she had no sense of the time, but it couldn’t be that long after dawn. “Isn’t it a little early to be drinking?”

Sophia’s smile widened, and she began to walk back towards the cargo, gesturing for Gwen to follow. She obeyed without a moment of hesitation. “Yes, but there isn’t much else to do on this ship, is there?” Sophia led her to a row of mahogany chests marked with the symbol of House Perreault. “Besides, I have a bottle of light rum imported from Antiva City which I have simply been  _ dying _ to open.” She hung her lantern from a nearby hook, pulled out a key from her pocket, and used it to open the lock on the nearest chest. She flipped the lid up, revealing a dozen crystal glasses nestled in straw, and beside them a clear jug filled with a clear liquid.

“Well, I won’t deny you someone to keep you company,” Gwen said.

“Thank you for indulging me.” Sophia picked up the bottle of rum. She had a small knife in her other hand, which she used to break the wax around the top.

“Thank you for allowing me to indulge you,” Gwen replied with a grin. She set her oil lamp aside before grabbing two of the glasses, while Sophia popped the cork out. “So, will this be your first time in Ferelden?”

“Second.” Clear liquid sloshed from the mouth of the jug, splashing into the bottom of one glass, and then the other. “In 31, I accompanied my father on a trip to Denerim to offer support to the Queen in her efforts to rebuild after the Blight— cheers, by the way.”

“Cheers,” Gwen echoed, clinking their glasses together.

“Anyway, we sailed into Amaranthine, but we couldn’t sail out of it at the time,” Sophia said over the rim of her glass. She knocked the shot back in an easy, praticed gesture. “The day before we were supposed to leave Denerim, we got word that Amaranthine was under siege from the remnants of the Archdemon’s army.” She wrinkled her nose. “We should have sailed out of Denerim instead, but for some reason, my father got it into his head that we should use this to see more of Ferelden and leave from Gwaran instead.”

Gwen swallowed her drink, nearly gagging on the overwhelming sweet burn, and she wrinkled her nose as well. She had to come up with something other than disgust with the alcohol to excuse the look on her face. “That must have added, what, two, three weeks to the voyage back?”

“I’m not sure how much longer it was,” Sophia poured herself another shot, “but it was long enough for the captain of the ship to become infatuated with me.”

Being stuck in a confined space with a man who was interested in her was very high up on Gwen’s list of deepest, darkest fears. “Maker’s breath, that sounds horrifying.”

“It was.” Sophia downed the next shot and made herself comfortable leaning against a wooden support column. “No matter how many times I told him I was not interested, he kept pursuing me. Kept telling me he would wear me down eventually.”

Gwen scowled. “Ugh. Men.”

“I know.” Sophia shook her head before extending the bottle of rum towards Gwen. “Please don’t let me be the only one drinking; have another shot.”

“Alright.” Gwen allowed her glass to be filled, and as she downed the rum once more, she had to fight hard to keep a scowl off her face. Every moment she had spent practicing controlling her emotions, controlling her facial expressions and body language, was being put to the test now as that awful sugary liquid ravaged her throat.  _ It’s for a cute woman, Gwen. You can do this.  _ “But could we please relocate somewhere more comfortable? Somewhere with chairs, preferably?”

“Oh, of course.” Sophia alighted from the column. She moved her glass into the same hand as the bottle of rum so she could lift her lantern from the hook. “You know this ship better than I do; where should we go?”

Gwen bit her tongue to keep herself from suggesting either of their rooms. “There’s a well-furnished parlor on the floor above us; I’ll show you where it is.” 

Together, they headed to the stairs. As they began to ascend, Sophia said, “This may be a bizarre question, but have we met before today?”

“I don’t think so.”  _ I would have remembered someone as beautiful as you.  _ Gwen opened the door onto the first floor. Sophia left her lantern behind on another hook at the top of the stairs, and Gwen began to lead her through the narrow wooden hallways. “Were you at Eirlys’ wedding?”

“Yes, but that couldn’t possibly have been it.” Gwen stopped in front of a pair of double doors with ornate bronze handles. She grabbed the right handle and tugged backwards; the door swung open to reveal a salon, smaller and quainter than the doors might have indicated. “I never remember- oh, this is cozy,” Sophia said as she strode into the room. A crackling hearth sat opposite the door, and a ring of red velvet chairs and couches took up most of the other space. No one else was there. 

“Anyway,” Sophia made her way towards one of the chairs, and Gwen took the chair beside hers, “I can never remember anyone I meet at those kinds of affairs. There are simply always too many people.” She shook her head and set her glass and bottle down on the dark wood table between their chairs. “And yet, when you first introduced yourself to me, I could have sworn I had heard your name before.”

“I’m not sure where else it would have been,” Gwen said.

Sophia pursed her lips, clearly deep in thought. Several minutes of silence stretched between them, punctuated only by the crackling of logs in the fireplace. Gwen was quick to pour herself another drink in that time, if only to have something to do other than stare at Sophia. She took slow sips and tried to find something else to look at. Anything else.

“Oh, I know what it is!” Sophia exclaimed, breaking the silence. “I’ve heard of your… method for avoiding marriage proposals; it’s become rather renowned across the Free Marches.”

Gwen blinked, cheeks flushing rapidly. “R-really?”

“Yes,” Sophia said. “I could never pull it off personally, but,” she leaned closer, putting one hand over Gwen’s, “it is absolutely brilliant. Never marrying a man who cannot beat you in both a physical duel and a game of chess. How did you convince your father to agree to such a scheme?”

Still blushing, Gwen reached up to tuck her hair behind her ear. “If he had known how troublesome it would be to find a man both smarter and stronger than me, he wouldn’t have agreed when I first proposed it. I am his youngest, though, and his favorite; he was willing to indulge me,” she smirked, the initial embarrassment giving way to confidence, “and I haven’t let him go back on his word.”

“Maker, I wish I could make something like that work,” Sophia said with a sigh, leaning back in her chair, though she kept her hand on Gwen’s. “My father changed Wycome’s succession laws so I could become Duchess just as any of his sons could become Duke, rendering marriage unnecessary.” She shook her head. “Yet he is still convinced that I need a man in my life.”

“My father feels the same way,” Gwen murmured, her voice tinged with sadness. “Thankfully, both he and my mother have largely dropped the subject since Kirkwall; they’ve been too busy politically to be playing matchmaker for me.” She paused. Her gaze had dropped down to the floor, but she lifted it back up to stare into Sophia’s gorgeous green eyes. “Why couldn’t you make something like that work?”

“I’ve never lifted a sword in my life, she replied.

Gwen could have guessed that was the case; the woman’s azure dress did not reveal much, but it was clear she lacked the muscles rippling through her shoulders and arms which would otherwise indicate combat experience. Her imagination was, however, quick to supply her with what Sophia could look like with those muscles. And some well-toned abs. And no dress. And the steps she could take to make this vision a reality. “Well, I am not sure your father would agree to my method, but,” she reached out with her other hand to trace it up and down Sophia’s arm, picturing the supple flesh beneath the sleeves, “I could certainly give you some pointers in sword-fighting.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.” Gwen shifted forward in her seat, leaning across the table, closer to Sophia. “In a duel, you always begin with a bow.” She nodded her head and grinned as Sophia giggled and did the same. “… and then,” her eyes went to Sophia’s pink, pink lips, “you lean in for the attack.”

It all happened so fast.

In one moment, Gwen’s eyes were half-closed as she leaned in, and she was moving her hand out from under Sophia’s so she could cup the other woman’s face.

In the next, she was being pushed away. Suddenly. Violently. As she was shoved backwards, her right hand collided with the bottle of rum and glasses on the table. All were knocked to the floor. All shattered into a thousand shards to the tune of a thousand little clinks. Gwen hit the back of her chair, slamming her head against the upholstery. When she opened her eyes and blinked away the haze, she saw Sophia staring at her with one hand over her mouth.

And those gorgeous green eyes had been blown wide. And they were watering. Trembling.

Gwen knew that look.  _ Fear.  _ Her pulse began to climb up her throat while her stomach plummeted and her chest tightened and she felt like she had been thrown off by a horse and landed flat on her back while the horse reared above her.  _ She’s afraid of me. _

And the hooves came crashing down. 

Sophia came for her face with a backhanded slap which Gwen took because she was too afraid herself to block it.

Then they both sat, still as statues except for the heaving of their chests- until Sophia leapt to her feet and ran out of the room, leaving Gwen alone with her stinging face and the tears burning her eyes. And she sat there for what could have been an eternity or a breath, listening to the blood rush in her ears until she couldn’t hear anything else and certainly not her own thoughts. But after that eternity or that breath, the adrenaline kicked in, and she scrambled out of that room as quickly as she possibly could.

Somehow she ended up in her room- or at least, a room with the fourth and final of her trunks. She fell to her knees in front of it, her entire body shaking as she scraped her fingers against the edges just so she could have something in her hands. Something to hold onto. Something to cling to as it all fell apart.

And she fell apart.

In that small dark room, she wept like she had not since the day the templars came to take Glen to the Circle seventeen years ago. Like she had wanted to since yesterday at dawn when Grand Cleric Lydia delivered that terrible, terrible news. Like she had not allowed herself to even when her once closest friend had driven her out of her ancestral home. When she learned her father and the woman she trusted with her love and her faith allowed her brother to be made Tranquil. When she was told she played some part in allowing it too.

Her twin brother’s voice came to her as she sobbed and littered the leather of her trunk with tears.  _ Gwendolyn you mustn’t cry. There is no need to be so upset, and no point to it either. What is done is done. _

Indeed, what had been done had been done, but this time, there was no point in anything else either. What could she do but cry? She had overplayed her hand to a woman who may not have any interest in men but clearly did not have any interest in women either. Who seemed repulsed to her core by the very idea.

She could pray, but ask the Maker for what? The strength to persevere? That she and Sophia would simply never be comfortable in each other’s presence again without any other consequences? To change her? To fix her? The last time she had made that particular request, all she had gotten back was silence. And the Maker had given her nothing but disappointment since yesterday.

No, all she could do was wait for the tears to stop falling.


	5. When I Have Lost All Else

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ack. Sorry this took so long! School started a few weeks ago, and the chapters keep getting longer... I passed 40,000 words with Chapter 12 (~In Their Blood~). The current goal is to have Act I, up until Gwen wakes up with the mark, drafted by the end of this year. Then I'll probably do scheduled updates for the rest of the act and go on hiatus until I make decent progress on Act II.
> 
> So that's the plan for now, and thank you for reading!

“You have to leave.”

Gwen sat on the bed in her room, hands folded tight in her lap. Every so often, when she was convinced her emotions were about to burst, she would pinch the skin on her hand or dig her nails in. Just enough pain to keep her from spiraling. She had had her moment of weakness, and now it was back to playing politics. Back to perfect control.

She stared at her cousin Eirlys coldly and raised an eyebrow. “Leave?” Eirlys nodded. “We’re on a ship in the middle of the sea. Where could I possibly leave to?” A flash on anxiety shot down her spine, and she pinched herself hard.  _ They do not mean to make me walk the plank. _

“Well, obviously you can stay on board until we get to Amaranthine,” Eirlys said. “It’s just, after that…” She glanced over her shoulder at the room’s other occupants. Grand Cleric Lydia, who glowered at Gwen. Knight-Captain Harrin, whose perpetual smile had been replaced by a pained grimace. “You’ve made some people here  _ very _ uncomfortable, and we- the Grand Cleric, the Knight-Captain, Lady Perreault, and myself- agreed it would really be best if, once we reach Amaranthine, you…”

“Find your own way to the Conclave,” Lydia said shortly, “or find your own way back to Ostwick. It’s of no concern to any of us anymore, but you cannot stay with us.”

Harrin winced. “For the record, I’m still not sure how I feel about any of this.”

“Well, Lady Perreault, Lady Revena, and I are quite certain,” Lydia replied. She turned her stony gaze away from Harrin and back to Gwen. “Additionally, you will not leave this room until we reach Amaranthine.” Gwen opened her mouth to protest. “The servants will bring you food and water, so you have no need to fetch it yourself.”

“So—!” Gwen’s voice croaked, the word coming out much louder than she had intended. She dug her nails into the back of her hand and tried again. “So I am a prisoner now?”

Lydia shrugged. “You assaulted the Duchess-to-be.”

“I did not—!”

“Lady Perreault said you did, Gwen,” Eirlys interrupted softly. She grimaced and strode across the room to touch Gwen’s shoulder. “Be grateful she doesn’t want you tried for violence against Wycome, alright? This isn’t as bad as it could be.”

It took all of Gwen’s self-control to keep from slapping Eirlys’ hand away. “You believe her?” So focused on keeping her body perfectly still, Gwen could not help the tinge of anger beginning to leak into her voice. “I did not assault her; if anything, she attacked me. She slapped me!”

“After you assaulted her,” Lydia said. “It was self-defense.”

Gwen swallowed thickly. “If I were a man—”

“But you’re not a man,” Eirlys said. She gave Gwen a small, sad, patronizing smile as she squeezed Gwen’s shoulder. “Just a little confused. And I have no problem with that! But like I said, you’ve made some people in this group  _ very _ uncomfortable.”

Gwen twitched  _ you can’t slap her _ and shot a glare across the room. “Like you, Lydia?”

Lydia scowled. “You will address me as Your Grace, or you will not address me at all.”

Gwen twisted her hands. “This is outrageous,” she hissed through her locked jaw and clenched throat. “We’ve been friends for years, and suddenly—”

“Gwen, please don’t make a fuss,” Eirlys said as she squeezed her shoulder again.

“Suddenly none of that matters?” Gwen continued forcefully. “Suddenly Your Grace is willing to throw me out and let me fend for myself because I wanted to kiss another woman?”

Lydia fixed her with a soul-piercing stare. Cold. Not fearful, like Sophia had been, but hateful. “Yes.”

Gwen sucked her breath in hard.

_ Close your eyes. _

She wanted to scream. 

_ Count backwards from ten. _

She wanted to yell until her voice was hoarse and destroy every piece of furniture in this room until her arms were sore. 

_ And accept your punishment with a smile. _

She wanted to tell Lydia she should have known she couldn’t trust her when she allowed Glen to be made Tranquil. 

_ 10… 9… 8…  _

She wanted to tell Eirlys she wasn’t the least bit confused about who she was. That would give her something to feel uncomfortable about.

_ 7… 6… 5… _

They had decided their opinion of her; playing nice now wasn’t going to change that.

_ 4… 3… 2… _

But Eirlys had been correct when she said that it could be worse.

_ 1… _

Gwen let the breath out and opened her eyes. Her composure had returned. She was ready to grin and bear this, ready to go back to being the golden girl of House Trevelyan. “Very well,” she said. Her voice matched the timbre and tone of Glendower’s. “I will accept my punishment under two conditions.”

Eirlys sighed and finally,  _ finally _ , released Gwen’s shoulder. “Thank you, Gwen.”

“What are they?” Harrin asked.

“No one who does not know of this already is to find out,” Gwen said. She needed to preserve her reputation. “If you must give an excuse, tell anyone who asks that I felt ill and decided to stay in Amaranthine for a few days to recover.”

Eirlys, Lydia, and Harrin all shared a glance before Lydia nodded. “We must confer with Lady Perreault, but I am sure that can be arranged.”

“And I need a pack horse,” Gwen added. She had to get all four of her trunks to the Divine Conclave. “My father was generous enough to offer this expedition a Coastland Draft Horse by the name of Midnight Ink from his personal stables. I want—”

“No,” Lydia interrupted.

The frown Harrin had not stopped wearing since he stepped into the room worsened. “It’s just a horse, Your Grace.”

“A horse we need,” Lydia stated. “We’ve carefully calculated what we need in order to carry everything to the Conclave; every animal we have onboard is essential.”

At that, a chill raced down Gwen’s spine. “Even  _ my _ horse?”

“The Imperial Warmblood?” Gwen nodded. “Lady Perreault wants that horse.”

Yes, before this, Gwen’s situation had been bad. But before this, she had at least had the means of getting to the Conclave. If she couldn’t get to the Conclave? If she couldn’t be there in two weeks when Glen would arrive? “He’s mine,” Gwen said, voice trembling ever so slightly. “She cannot take him.”

“Gwen, come on,” Eirlys encouraged softly. “You can buy another horse in Amaranthine.”

“This isn’t about the horse,” Gwen snapped, causing Eirlys to flinch.  _ Get ahold of yourself! _ She breathed in slowly and let out a long exhale before continuing, with less force this time. “This is about the illegal seizure of my rightful property.”

“Quite frankly, Lady Trevelyan, you are in no position to be making any demands of us,” Lydia said. “You should be grateful we agreed not to tell anyone else, but if you continue to be difficult, we will have to go back on that condition.” She paused, and for the first time, the tightness in her face eased as she smiled ever so slightly. “I remember what happened to your brother Emrys eleven years ago. Do you?”

“... it was thirteen years ago,” Gwen corrected quietly. Thirteen years ago, and she remembered it far too well. She knew exactly what she was being threatened with. “Very well.” She sighed heavily and, unable to maintain her posture any longer, curled inwards. “You’ve made it perfectly clear that there is no depth to the moral depravity you will sink to to punish me for this.”

“Precious little is more morally offensive than what you’ve done,” Lydia assured her. Harrin and Eirlys didn’t look convinced of that, but neither of them argued with her. Not that Gwen could blame them. They had just watched her blackmail Gwen, after all.

She sighed again. “I will comply. With whatever you ask of me.”

Gwen spent the rest of the day confined to her room. Twice an elf brought her a small wooden plate of bread and hard cheese, and a cup of distilled red wine. She had a waterskin in the trunk in her room, but it was empty, so she could do nothing as her throat dried. Instead, she sat there for hours, parched, bored, and unable to do much of anything at all. At one point she attempted to read one of the books she brought from Ostwick but could not focus long enough to read more than one line. The words blurred and swam before her eyes, their meaning utterly lost in translating from the page to her mind. So she gave up and attempted to get some sleep.

She did not know how long she slept, unable to mark the passage of time without a window or a glimpse of the sun. But when she woke up again, it was to the sound of someone knocking on her door. Which was more politeness than she had received since boarding  _ The White Steed _ .

“Just—” her voice cracked. Gwen cleared her throat and tried again. “Just a minute!” 

She sat up in her bed, fingers curling into the bedsheets as she tried to ignore the headache that had formed between her eyes while she slept. She reached into her trunk and pulled out a silver brush and a small ornate hand mirror, the glass lined with gold. She ran the brush through her hair a few times until the golden locks spilling over her shoulders weren’t quite so tangled. Were she at home, she would take the time to style her hair, carefully braiding and weaving until it was beautiful. But today, the goal wasn’t beauty; it was presentability- which was why next, she grabbed a well-worn cloth to remove her makeup. Having no water to remove it with, she had left it on while she had slept, and now it was smeared and smudged.

And now, she plucked the clay cup of distilled wine off of the table. She turned it over and watched the last few drops roll down the sides and cling to the rim. With a little shake, the small red beads fell from the cup and hit the cloth, staining it purple. She shook the cup again until she was sure she had collected the last of the moisture before lifting the rag to her face. Across the right eye first- over the lid and around the corners, ignoring the smell, the dry texture, the sticky residue.

As she repeated the process with her left eye, the person knocked again.

“I’ll be there in just a minute!”

She brought the cloth to her cheeks and scrubbed away as best she could the Antivan rouge made from crushed prince’s feather. After examining her almost bare face in the mirror once more, she decided to leave her lipstick intact. She doubted she could remove all of the waxy substance with the now-dry cloth, so she gave her hair one last brush, pulled it up into a ponytail, and stood, smoothing her skirt before crossing to the door.

“Knight-Captain Harrin,” Gwen exclaimed, unable to keep the surprise out of her voice. She glanced over his shoulder, down the hallway. No sign of the Grand Cleric, Sophia, or Eirlys.

“Don’t worry,” he assured her. “I’ve come alone. I’ve been asked- well, I volunteered to, really- escort you off the ship.”

Gwen blinked. “We’ve landed in Amaranthine?”

“A few hours ago, actually,” Harrin said with a nod. “Everyone else has deboarded already and relocated to the inn we’ll be staying in until we start for the Conclave tomorrow.”

At that, Gwen’s lips curled, and she folded her arms. “Everyone except me.” She dug her nails into her right arm. For a moment, she struggled to keep more cold, venomous words off her tongue. “ _ I _ have to be hidden away, paraded through the shadows so I don’t make anyone  _ uncomfortable _ .”

Harrin grimaced. “I am so terribly sorry about how this all played out.” He licked his lips, rubbing at the back of his neck. “If it had been up to me, none of this would be happening; you didn’t do anything wrong,” he sighed, “but the Grand Cleric doesn’t feel that way.”

“She’s not the only one,” Gwen muttered.

“And I’m not the only one who thinks you weren’t in the wrong,” Harrin replied, “but Lydia has more power than all of us- at least, all of us who are on this ship.” He sighed again and shook his head. “We should get going; is there anything you need help with?”

“I have four packed trunks,” Gwen said, “and I can’t possibly carry all of them.” She paused, doing a quick mental overview of her inventory. What she absolutely needed to keep and what would have to be sacrificed now that she would likely only have one horse to get her to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. “If you could help me carry two of them to Amaranthine’s market, I would appreciate it.”

“Of course,” Harrin said with a nod. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Lydia asked that your stuff remain on board when the servants took everything off; I’ll go check the hold.”

“Last I checked, they were near the stables,” Gwen said. “You’ll be looking for three black leather trunks with gold lining, and a white horse across the top. The fourth one is in my room with me.”

“I’ll be right back,” Harrin promised before disappearing.

Gwen stepped away from the door with a sigh. She stood there for a moment before walking back to her bed so she could return the mirror and cloth to the trunk. Then, she sat back down on the mattress while she waited for Harrin to return, which didn’t take too long. After a few minutes, she heard a knock again. She opened the door, and, sure enough, Harrin stood outside with her trunks on the floor beside him.

“Are you ready to go, Lady Trevelyan?” he asked.

“Call me Gwen.” She chewed the inside of her mouth, considering her next move. “Pass me those trunks and give me a few more minutes; I’d like to change.”

Harrin nodded, handed Gwen the trunks one at a time, and closed the door once more. Gwen found the trunk with her armor and began to strip out of her dress. If she was to be travelling through a foreign country on her own, she couldn’t be wearing finery, and, regardless, she definitely could not be wearing finery she had worn for over a day and slept in. So she undressed down to nothing, slipped on fresh underclothes, and put her leathers on instead. She slid her sword into its sheath, and attached the waterskin and the seax to her belt as well.

Finally, she reached for the greataxe. Well over half her height, heavy, impractical in close range combat without thicker armor to protect her. But running her fingers over that yellow ribbon around the hilt, adjusting her grip and feeling its weight in her hand, she felt safe for the first time since she left Ostwick.

When she strode back over to the door, greataxe slung over her back, she was ready for war.


	6. Prepare His People for the Doom to Come

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for how long this took!! School + life are kicking my ass right now... but things are about to take a turn for the better for Gwen, so bear with me (and her)!

“And how much for this?”

It was with an indescribable degree of reluctance that Gwendolyn removed the greataxe from her back and held it across the counter. A beady-eyed, rose-cheeked dwarf named Sval stood underneath the wooden canopy. He took a step back, eyes wide and fixed on the blade of the axe, which was larger than his face. “ _That_?” he exclaimed. “By the Ancestors, I don’t think I can even lift that! Look at it! I don’t think most humans could even lift it.”

“You’re worried about being able to sell it,” Gwen stated with a slight frown. “You were happy to take the kite shield.”

“Yeah, as a trade for the tiny wooden one,” he replied, nodding at the round shield in question, which rested against Gwen’s leg, “and I can sell your monster shield to a blacksmith to melt down for the iron.”

“You can melt the axe down as well.” It was a painful thought, this precious gift reduced to scrap parts, but Gwen couldn’t carry it with her. Better to get some coin for it.

Sval snorted. “Not for iron, you can’t.” He sighed and gestured for Gwen to hand the axe to him. She did, and he struggled with the weight for a moment before setting it down on the counter. “Sure, the handle is iron, but the blade?” He traced his fingers over the smooth cheek of the head. “This is silverite. Way rarer.”

“Isn’t that good?” Gwen asked. “More money for you.”

“And who am I going to get it from?” Sval demanded. “I sell handaxes to farmers who want to scare wolves away from their sheep. None of them know how to use something like this, and even if they did, they certainly can’t pay me what it’s worth.”

Gwen barely suppressed an annoyed sigh. “You can’t sell this to the guards?”

“City guards are only allowed to use requisition stuff,” he replied.

“What about a noble?” Gwen pressed. “Noblemen love collecting weapons they can hang on the wall and pretend they can use.” She should know; a certain older brother of hers kept a halberd hanging above the fireplace in his room. _Foolish of him. Everyone knows women prefer daggers._

“Hmm.” Sval stroked his beard, nodding. “That’s not a bad idea; nobles eat that shit up- especially if you tell them it was used in the Blight.”

The axe had never left the Free Marches, but Gwen wasn’t going to deny the man his lie. “So you’ll take it?”

“I definitely can’t pay you what it’s worth,” he said as he began to paw through his drawers of coins. “I don’t have that much money on me- but if you come back in a month, I can give you the rest from what I swindle out of whichever noble this ends up with.”

“That’s very generous of you,” Gwen said with a smile. No need to tell him she would have dumped it in an alleyway if he didn’t buy it, and subsequently didn’t care how much money she actually got for it.

“Glad you think so, because fifteen sovereigns is about as generous as I can be today,” he replied. He slid a handful of dull gold coins across the counter.

Gwen counted them before scooping them up and putting them in her coin purse. “As long as there’s another ten sovereigns waiting for me when I come back after you’ve sold it.” She paused, staring at the axe, at her own face reflected in the blade. She swallowed thickly before reaching for the ribbon around the hilt. “This isn’t included, by the way.”

“Damn; it was a nice touch.” He shrugged. “Well, I can find other personal effects to add to it- stuff to help me sell the story of the poor blighter this belonged to before he ate it ten years ago.”

“Try blood stains,” Gwen suggested as she undid her ponytail, “or you could add a notch somewhere where it was used to split a hurlock’s skull.” She combed her fingers through her hair a few times before pulling it back again. While she spoke, she tied her hair up once more, this time with the yellow ribbon. “A handkerchief around the tip that belonged to his dead wife who he had to kill after she contracted the taint.”

“That’s good,” Sval admitted. “You come up with that off the top of your head?”

Gwen shrugged. “I used to be a politician- of sorts; lying is what I’m good at.”

The dwarf chuckled. “Well, I know you’re not lying now.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Only politicians talk about things ‘of sorts’,” he replied. “Speaking in half-truths is what your type does best.”

Gwen allowed herself a small smile. “Yes it is… you seem like a knowledgeable man.”

“I’d like to think so.”

“I need a place for the night. Any recommendations?”

Sval curled his fingers through his thick brown beard. “Well, the obvious choice is The Crown and the Lion, the city of Amaranthine’s tavern and inn, but I heard it’s overrun with Free Marchers until tomorrow.” He paused, eyes narrowing. “You’re a Marcher; why aren’t you with your friends?”

“I could tell you something, but we’ve already established I’m a liar,” Gwen answered with a shrug, “meaning you can’t trust any answer I give you.”

“That’s the problem with you Marcher types,” the man grumbled. “Too independent. Fine. Keep your secrets to yourself. Point is, you probably can’t stay there. You could always go to the Chantry,” he gestured behind himself, no doubt pointing to where the Chantry was, “and try to convince the Revered Mother to let you spend the night.”

Gwen chewed the inside of her mouth. “The Maker and I aren’t on the best of terms right now.”

Sval rolled his eyes. “That’s not suspicious at all.”

Gwen rolled her eyes as well. “Just… is there anywhere else I could go?” She would sleep in a stable if that’s what it took to have a roof over her head for the night and to avoid Grand Cleric Lydia, who was no doubt spending the night at the Chantry herself.

“You could try to find someone in the city kind enough to take you in,” he suggested, “or, if you have a horse, you could try to make it to Vigil’s Keep.”

Gwen frowned. “The Warden’s base?”

“If you see any Wardens in it while you’re there, I’d love to know,” Sval replied with a coarse laugh. “You’ll find the senechal there, a merchant or two, maybe, some Chantry folk, guards, and a shitton of empty space and nothin’, but no Wardens.” He shook his head and shrugged. “Went to all the damn trouble to rebuild the place and hold it for nearly a week against an army of darkspawn, only to let it sit well over half empty now.”

“That’s odd,” Gwen admitted, but it was also not her immediate concern, and it meant there would be plenty of space for her. “But what did you mean by _could_ try to make it there?”

“It’s not a short ride,” Sval warned. “About a day’s ride for a small company on horseback. Of course, you’d just be riding by yourself,” he paused, looking over her, no doubt noting the muscles in her legs, “and a woman like yourself, you could probably cut that time in half on a good horse.”

“Currently, I don’t have any horse at all.” Gwen’s face soured as she thought of her Imperial Warmblood, her horse of eight years, taken away from her. “You wouldn’t be able to help me out with that too, would you?”

A small smile poked out from underneath Sval’s bushy mustache. “I can, but I should warn you- there’s only one kind of horse you can get in Amaranthine.”

“An Amaranthine Charger.” Spirited horses, less temperamental than Imperial Warmbloods, known for their fast trots and stamina. The perfect horse for riding to Vigil’s Keep while racing the setting sun. Her father kept a pair in his stables. “And where would you suggest I go to buy one?”

“There are a few cottages just outside the main gates,” Sval said, nodding to his left towards the gate. “One of them belongs to a woman who owns a small stable built right into the wall of the city. It’s a _small_ stable, though,” he warned. “Premium prices.”

“That won’t be an issue,” Gwen assured him. “Does she sell tack too?”

“Not sure- you’ll have to ask her,” Sval replied with a shrug. “Personally, I try to stay as far away from those beasts as possible.”

Gwen gave him a small smile. “They’re less scary when you’re as tall as I am.”

“Yeah, well, you’re tall even for a human,” Sval said, shaking his head. “Life must be easy for you up there.” Gwen’s smile faltered. He wasn’t wrong; it was easy. At least, it had been until two days ago. “Well, is there anything else I can do for you, Lady…?”

Gwen blinked. That was a question she hadn’t been asked in a long time, and for the first time, the answer made her uncomfortable. “Trevelyan. And no,” she reached into her coin purse and pulled out five of those fifteen sovereigns, “you’ve been incredibly helpful. Here.” She slid the gold across the countertop. “For the information.”

Sval’s ruddy cheeks turned even redder as he pocketed the money. “You’re too kind- especially for a politician of sorts.”

Gwen smiled again, this time wider. “Thank you, for everything.”

“Don’t mention it,” Sval said as he smiled as well, “and if you ever find yourself in Amaranthine again, you had better visit to get those ten sovereigns.”

“I will,” Gwen promised. She paused as she began to turn away. She knew how to end these exchanges in Ostwick. How almost every kind of exchange in Ostwick was supposed to end. May the Maker watch over you. May you walk in His light. May He bless you. She did not know if this man was Andrastian, though— and, perhaps more importantly, she wasn’t sure where she stood in relation to the Maker anymore either. So she nodded and said, “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Lady Trevelyan.”

Gwen slung her newly purchased small round shield over her back. Before coming to Sval’s stall, she had bought a large backpack which she put over her back as well. Then, she grabbed the saddlebags she had bought from the same stall and picked up her rolled up tent. The thought of having a horse to unload some of this burden onto lifted her heart. She had sold as much as she thought she wouldn’t need and couldn’t carry- a half dozen dresses, jewelry, perfume, makeup, all but the smallest of her pans, the pillows, all the clothes she had brought for Glen except for one heavy cape. And still, even with the most recent deduction of the kite shield and her greataxe, it was a lot.

But she didn’t have to carry it far.

The woman who owned the stables Sval had mentioned drove the kind of hard bargain he had also mentioned. However, by some small grace, the one thing Gwen had yet to part with was her coin. Within the hour, she had purchased a bay Amaranthine Charger by the name of Bright Dawn, and two more horses for a Tranquil Marcher and a Nevarran elf who would come to the city in four days. The horses also all came with tack and grooming supplies for a few extra silvers. So she secured the saddlebags over a new saddle blanket and the tent behind the cantle of the worn but sturdy saddle. Backpack and shield still on her back, she hoisted herself up into the saddle, adjusted the stirrups, took up the reins, and took off towards Vigil’s Keep.

True to Sval’s word, it was late into the night when Gwen finally caught sight of fires flickering in the distance, lighting some poor guard’s nightly rounds. The road was blessedly well-marked and empty, and the weather had been clear. Still, it was nice to know respite was just a few minutes away, and Gwen was eager to be out of the saddle.

Part of the main road veered off into a small trail leading towards the keep, which Gwen took. She found herself in front of a portcullis; a guard stood on the wall above it, brandishing a torch down at her.

“Ho there, stranger!” the guard called out. “Who goes there?”

“My name is Gwendolyn Trevelyan,” she hollered back. “I am seeking refuge here for the night.”

“What is your business in Amaranthine, Lady Trevelyan?”

“I am travelling to the Divine Conclave,” Gwen said. “Amaranthine is a way point between my ancestral home of Ostwick and the Temple of Sacred Ashes.”

The guard nodded slowly. “Going to the Divine Conclave is a noble cause, Lady Trevelyan.” As he spoke, he crossed the wall to a crank which he began to turn. The portcullis lifted. “I will take you to the seneschal, but I am sure he will let you stay the night.”

“Thank you, good sir!” Gwen climbed out of the saddle, wincing as her stiff, bent legs hit the ground. She took the reins in one hand while she stretched and cracked her shoulders. What she wouldn’t give for a hot bath and a soft feather bed with warm silk sheets, but she knew those were luxuries she would not have access to for a long time. Resigned to living with the soreness, she marched through the open gate, tugging Bright Dawn behind her. “Is there somewhere I can leave my horse?” she called to the guard, who was climbing down the steps.

“We have stables up the path, to the left,” he answered as he walked up to her. He gestured for her to follow, and they began moving towards the Keep. “There are a pair of stable hands who can groom your horse in the morning, and have her tacked when you’re ready to leave.”

“Excellent.”

That was the last word they exchanged. As they ambled up the path, Gwen made note of the small, shuttered cottages, the empty merchant stands. Everything was abandoned and quiet. She spotted a few guards along the wall, but she and her escort were the only ones on the ground— until they passed a makeshift Chantry. It was a stunningly small chapel, nothing like the ornate cathedral of Ostwick. It was made of wood instead of stone, and it could not possibly hold more than a dozen people at a time. Outside of it stood a templar. Resolute and still, the tip of their sword rested against the ground, and they had their hands clasped around the pommel.

_“I believe this is where we must part ways.”_

She heard Harrin’s voice in her mind, their last conversation echoing across her thoughts as she stared at the other templar’s armor, glowing pearly white in the darkness.

_“Thank you, Harrin. Your help has been invaluable.”_

_“It’s no trouble, Gwen. I’m sorry it had to come to this, but you’ve always been a capable woman. I am sure you will find the way forward— and until then, may the Maker watch over you.”_

_“And you…” Beat. “Wait! Knight-Captain! There’s something you must know.”_

_“What is it?”_

_“Glendower didn’t convince his apprentices to rebel. In fact, if I know my brother at all, I’d guess he did everything he possibly could to stop them. When they were caught, he was afraid you would make them Tranquil, so he took the fall for them. He lied to you and Caitlyn.”_

_“...how do you know this?”_

_“He told me when I visited him two days ago, and you know he could not have been lying then.”_

_“No… Maker’s breath… why are you telling me this?”_

_“Because you’ve proven to me that you are a man with a good conscience and a kind heart, and I want Knight-Commander Caitlyn gone, and you should too.”_

_“She has been growing more and more paranoid and cruel since Kirkwall.”_

_“And we don’t want a repeat of Kirkwall, do we?”_

_“Maker, no, but what could I do to depose her? Unless… I am about to spend a nice long bit of time with Grand Cleric Lydia. If anyone in Ostwick has the power to get rid of Caitlyn, it’s her.”_

Gwen smiled at the memory, but it was fleeting, for in the next moment, she remembered Glen’s last letter. She touched her chestplate, knowing the letters sat under the leather, tucked into her bra and scratching against her breasts. She could practically see the frenzied writing swimming before her eyes, the fear radiating from the messy quill slashes.

“Maker,” she whispered in a soft, almost silent prayer. Her eyes never left the statuesque templar and the flame-wreathed sword across their body. “Please let the Circle last that long.”


	7. Withstand Another Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If things have been moving a bit slowly recently, they're about to pick up! It was interesting editing this chapter given the chapter I just finished writing, knowing where Gwen and [new character you're about to meet] are going to end up....
> 
> As always, if you like my work, leave some kudos and a comment!

Gwendolyn set out again the next day, when the sun was high in the sky. She left Vigil’s Keep well-rested, having had her first peaceful night’s sleep in three days, and well-fed. She had scarcely eaten in three days, and, bland as they were, boiled potatoes and mutton were a welcome change. The ground Antivan spices she kept in her saddlebags helped too.

She rode west on the North Road, the Coastlands to her right and the Bannorn to the south. It took a day to ride past the vast swaths of farmland dotted with estates. After that, the road was bordered by a forest of thin white-barked trees.

It was mind-numbing, riding for so long without anything else to do. Anything else to think about. Gwen’s thoughts wandered constantly, and sometimes there were no thoughts at all. Just dull nothing from the base of her skull to the tips of her toes until Bright Dawn came down a little too hard, jostling Gwen back to awareness. A distracted rider was, after all, a bad rider- but it was so hard to stay focused on the straight road and the unending and unchanging landscape.

She found herself wishing the road would turn north. She knew it would not, and knew that if it did, it would put her further away from her destination. But she wished for it nonetheless. She didn’t need to see the coastline, but she wanted to hear the crashing of waves on the shore and smell the salt in the air. And if she could get close enough to the Waking Sea, she wanted to look across it and know that her family, her twin brother, were just on the other side. She wanted a glimpse at her old life, as far away from her physically as it felt emotionally.

Some of her earliest memories were of the Waking Sea. She couldn’t say she actually remembered those days, but she had certainly heard enough stories to fabricate the memories. It was Summerday in Ostwick. 9:13. A week earlier, her eldest siblings Briallen and Trystan had pledged themselves to the Templar Order- together. They had yet to realize that they would be sent to separate trainers, and separate Circles after that; they did not know that after that day, they would see each other as rarely as Gwen saw them growing up. 

But for now, there was only ignorance, joy, and splashing around in the sea. The House Trevelyan private beach was only a ten minute walk away from the estate, so the family spent the holiday stretched out on the white sand and playing in the clear green water. Her mother held Gwen and Glen as she waded out into the sea, and they bobbed up and down beside her. Briallen and Trystan pranced about the shore playing templar and apostate— except neither of them ever wanted to be the apostate, so they roped Emrys into playing with them. Caerwyn was laying on his back with the sea and their father’s hands beneath him, learning the same lessons Gwen and Glen would receive in a few years time.

When Gwen blinked, she could see her family’s shining faces and their bright smiles. Hair soaked through and faces lined with salty droplets and sand coating everything. Before Briallen and Trystan were separated. Before Glen was thrown out of the family for being a mage and Emrys was thrown out of it for being gay. Before she ruined her relationship with Caerwyn.

Before. There was nothing she missed more than ‘before’.

The small smile that had formed on Gwen’s lips faded as another thought formed in her mind. Another reconstructed memory. Caerwyn had once told her that they day before that particular Summerday, their father had held court for Gwen’s wet nurse, who stood accused of stealing grain from the Trevelyan Estate’s cellars. She had had three children of her own, the youngest Gwen and Glen’s age, and she was not making enough money to feed all of them. Working for one of the richest and most powerful families in the Free Marches, and she did not have the coin to buy bread.

“Father had her executed the day after Summerday,” Gwen murmured to herself. Another example of her father dealing out disproportionate punishments for crimes that were not really crimes at all. She swallowed thickly and squeezed her thighs, easing Bright Dawn from a trot down to a walk. “Her name was Caliga.” She could not remember her children’s names. Or what happened to them after their mother was killed.

Gwen was pulled out of her thoughts by the sound of footsteps. She had encountered few others on the North Road so far, and always individuals or pairs, but this sounded like at least a half-dozen people, marching directly towards her. As she came over a small hill, she saw them. Seven in total, plus a draft horse which made Gwen prickle with envy. They moved under no flag, though they wore leathers and were armed. One of them, no doubt their leader, was even fortunate to have a set of chainmail, though there was no tunic over it to give any indication of his loyalties.

She halted Bright Dawn at the top of the hill and narrowed her eyes, trying to determine who exactly these people were. Her eyes went to the draft horse again, to the bags loaded across its back. The top one had not been closed all the way, and she caught sight of gold. Dull, to be sure; poorly taken care of. Squinting harder, she realized it was a tiara. None of the men below her seemed like the tiara-wearing type.

_ Bandits. _ Fear shot down her spine.  _...stupid bandits. Very stupid bandits if they thought marching stolen goods up the main road was a good idea. _ Still, she wasn’t looking for a fight; she considered veering off into the forest- except they had noticed her, and they were walking towards her even faster now.

With a grimace and a stifled groan, Gwen squeezed her calves. Bright Dawn lurched underneath her and began lumbering down the hill. “Gentlemen!” she called out. Start friendly. Pray they’ll let her by without causing trouble. “It’s always nice to see other faces on the road.”

“Indeed it is.” Their leader smirked. “What’s your name, young lady?”

Gwen fought to keep a scowl off her face. “Evelyn Dumar.”

“And where might you be headed, Lady Dumar?”

“Highever,” she lied. “I’m visiting my mother in Highever.”

“Highever isn’t too far out of our way,” the man commented, “and these roads can be dangerous to travel on your own.” His smirked. “We’d be happy to provide an escort- for a small price, of course.”

Gwen barely kept herself from snorting.  _ All they would do is slow me down. _ She rested one hand on the handle of her sword and smiled politely. “Thank you, but I can handle myself.”

“Come on, boss,” one of the other men muttered. “Let’s just let her be on her way.”

“Shut up, Griff,” the leader hissed, cuffing him over the back of the head. He turned back to Gwen with a sugary smile on his face. “Come on, darling.” Gwen ground her teeth together. Her patience always ran shorter with men. Especially men who called her ‘darling’. “Even if you don’t need protection, certainly you could use some company.”

“Not yours,” she snapped.

The leader’s smile fell and morphed into a scowl. “Bitch. You had better be nice.”

“Or else what?” Gwen demanded. “You’ll attack me like you attacked whatever poor village you recently ransacked?”

The men glowered at her while Griff snapped, “How the hell did you know that?”

Gwen scoffed. “Seriously? I’m no professional bandit, but I’m fairly sure after you loot somewhere, you shouldn’t march your ill-gotten goods up a major road in an open bag,” she gestured to the draft horse. “What was the next step? Take it to Amaranthine to sell it? What were you going to say if someone asked where you got it?”

“What we do with our goods isn’t any concern of yours,” the leader said as he drew his sword, “and you’ll be dead by the time we get to Amaranthine.”

The men followed suit, and Gwen wished desperately that she had her great axe. One swing of it from on top of a horse, and they’d all go down. Things being as they were, she had no choice but to collect the reins in one hand and draw her sword as well.

_ Boom. _

Bright Dawn reared backwards as flames suddenly exploded in front of them. Columns of smoke curled upwards, and Gwen coughed, clenching her legs and her stomach as tight as she could while her eyes watered and her throat burned. Through the haze, she caught sight of a large robed figure further down the road. Where had they come from? And was that… Gwen’s eyes widened as she realized the mysterious stranger was twirling a staff in their hands, and it looked like they were about to cast another spell.

Bright Dawn came down hard and landed on Griff, who, like the other bandits, had been knocked to the ground by the fire ball. The others were slowly beginning to recover— climbing to their feet and fervently patting out the flames licking their bodies. Gwen turned her horse away and scurried back several paces.

“Loudon! Carris! Get the apostate!” their leader bellowed as he staggered to his feet. “Everyone else, attack this bi—” The word died on his throat as an orb of brittle frost nailed him in the back and spread to cover his body.

“That’s not a very nice word, Monsieur bandit!” the mysterious apostate called out. Feminine in voice.

With a smirk, Gwen charged forward towards the leader with her sword extended out from her side. She swung forward hard, and the blade sliced through the brittle ice and frozen skin.

‘Monsieur bandit’s head went rolling down the hill.

One of the five remaining bandits lunged towards Gwen from the left. Her shield stuck underneath her backpack, she was forced to rip the seax out of her belt as quickly as she could to be her defense instead. Blade pointing down, she caught the bandit’s sword, but not before the tip could slice alongside Bright Dawn’s stomach. The horse recoiled, neighing loudly as she fell to the right. The bandit’s sword slid from the knife, and Gwen swore. She was no chevalier, was not accustomed to combat on horseback, but it was too risky to dismount now.

Another bandit charged at her from the right. Gwen struck his exposed forehead with the pommel of her sword. That disorienting him long enough to turn and check on the first bandit. He was moving to strike again. Gwen dropped her weight backwards and squeezed her calves; Bright Dawn shuffled backwards, obedient even as she tossed her head about and whinnied.

Both opponents were now in front of her, as well as a third bandit who had suffered the worst of the fire ball and was only just recovering. Gwen sunk her heels low and braced herself for the next attack.

The two upright men barrelled towards her. The one on the right held his sword in just his left hand. Grinding her teeth together, Gwen thrust forward. The tip of her sword slid into the gap between his breastplate and his left rerebrace. 

At the same time, the one to the left swung his sword back, the blade aimed at Bright Dawn’s throat. Gwen bolted upright in the stirrups and leaned over her horse’s neck. She slashed the seax downward. Their blades locked. Her muscles strained as she fought to parry the man’s sword away, but he threw his weight forward. Pushing. Pressing. Nudging the blade up and towards Bright Dawn. Inch by inch.

Gwen was suddenly jerked to the right. She nearly toppled out of the saddle while her attacker stumbled forward at the abrupt loss of contact. The other bandit had yanked her sword out of his shoulder. Mouthing foul words, he raised his sword above his head. Gwen fell back into the saddle and swung her leg back just in time for the blow to graze Bright Dawn instead.

But Bright Dawn went veering away from her attacker. Right into the other dazed bandit. Gwen felt a sharp pain in her thigh, a body pressed against her own, and then warmth. Sticky hot warmth across her hand. And howls of pain the likes of which she had never heard before.

She turned to see the bandit’s sword driven into her thigh. And her seax sticking out of his eye.

Her heart hit her sternum hard, and she let go of the knife with a gasp. Followed by a scream. She sucked in her breath hard, trying to settle something. Her pulse. Her nerves. Anything. Jaw clenched tight, she forced herself to turn to the other bandit. At least he seemed equally shocked and disturbed by the man now keeling on the ground with only one eye.

That’s when she heard hooves.

She turned to look ahead. She saw the mysterious apostate with one dead bandit by her feet and another wounded but attacking her. And in front of them she saw the fifth bandit. The one who had gotten the worst of the fire ball, with a half-burnt face and a limp and a smirk. Because in front of him was a spooked draft horse now barreling towards Gwen and Bright Dawn as quickly as it could.

“Oh fu—”

The word died in Gwen’s throat as the two horses collided, hard. Shock waves ripped through Gwen while Bright Dawn reeled and her hooves scrambled against the dry earth to find purchase. Thrown backwards in one moment and forward in the next, Gwen smacked her head against Bright Dawn’s neck as the horse threw her head back. Head ringing, she lost grip of her sword first. And as Bright Dawn reared, she lost her grip on the saddle.

_ Smack. _

Darkness.

Gwen could feel her pulse behind her eyes and a stinging in her right leg as she came to. Blinking the black spots from her vision, she looked up and saw the burnt bandit standing over her, his sword up to her throat. Under the rushing of blood in her ears, she could hear loud neighing. She tilted her head towards the noise and saw Bright Dawn and the draft horse circling each other, ears pinned back. A sudden pressure against her throat made her turn back, back to the charred man standing above her and pressing the tip of his blade into her throat.

“Bitch, keep your eyes up here,” he hissed.

“Maker.” Despite the command she had just been given, Gwen turned to the right and saw the other bandit cradling his one-eyed brother in his arms. “By Andraste, look at what she did to Grenner…”

“Don’t worry, Torrin,” the other bandit said, voice surprisingly soft. “We’ll think of some nice, slow,  _ painful _ way to make this bitch—”

“What did I  _ just _ tell your leader about that word?” All eyes turned down the road. To the mysterious apostate with a thin wooden staff in one hand and a dagger in the other. With blood-spattered robes and horns. Gwen let out a gasp as she realized this apostate was a Qunari. “It’s not a very nice word!” She flourished her staff before striking the ground. Electricity arced from the tip of the staff, up into the air, and down on Torrin’s head. And from there it leapt to Gwen’s attacker. Both men flailed as lightning ripped through their bodies.

Gwen threw her backpack off, tore Grenner’s sword out of her thigh, and scrambled to her feet. She stepped with her right leg and threw all her weight on it. With both hands wrapped around Grenner’s sword, she thrust forward. The tip pierced the charred man’s armor and slid into his gut. A few stray sparks of electricity leapt up the blade and stung Gwen’s fingers. She winced but tightened her grip on the hilt as she pulled the sword back. The bandit went stumbling away from her, clenching his stomach and groaning.

Gwen pulled out her shield and used it to bash him in the chest. Once, twice, until he went crumpling to the ground. She stared at the bloody and burnt figure at her feet, and he started back up at her, eyes blazing with nothing but hatred. Defeated but no signs of surrender.

She let out a hiss of a sigh. “So be it.” She slung her shield back over her shoulder and adjusted her grip on the sword, both hands around the hilt and the blade pointed down. She sunk the sword into the man’s chest. Blood burst from the wound and his face twisted in agony and he let out a strangled sob. After a moment, the sound died down to nothing.

Gwen’s chest heaved as she released the sword. Her blood was still coursing through her veins and pounding in her ears, and the pain in her thigh suddenly came back into focus with a vengeance which made her gasp. She shut her eyes, swallowing swears on her tongue and stifling groans.

“Well.” Gwen’s eyes flew open as she heard another voice. The Qunari’s voice. The other woman was standing just a few feet away from her, towering over Torrin’s body with a frown. She stared at Torrin for a moment longer before looking to Gwen. “That was messy, wasn’t it?”

Gwen’s breath snagged in her chest, and she lunged for the sword sticking out of the dead bandit’s chest. She had to struggle to pull it out, her stamina spent, her muscles straining, and the pain in her leg flaring. But eventually it gave way, and Gwen swung it around to point at the Qunari. “Stay back apost—” Too much power behind the movement, Gwen went spinning to the left, and the weight of the sword carried her to the ground. For the second time that day, Gwen hit the road hard. This time she landed on her stomach and got a mouthful of clay.

To little surprise, the woman laughed as Gwen scrambled onto her back. 

“Damn, I was  _ so sure _ you were going to say oxwoman.” 

Gwen blinked, mouth hanging open. Though she hardly had her wits about her, something about that response was odd. Off. 

“I mean, it’s always one of the two with you people, you know? Oxwoman or apostate.” As she spoke, she slung her staff across her back, though she kept her dagger in hand. “Sometimes someone either has shit eyesight or feels like misgendering me and throws in ‘oxman’, but that’s pretty rare.” She reached into the inside of her robe and pulled out a slender vial of pulsing blue lyrium. “Not to brag or anything, but I pass  _ very _ well.”

“What,” Gwen groaned as the world tilted sideways for a moment. Why didn’t a single word coming out of this woman’s mouth make sense? “What in Andraste’s name are you talking about?”

She didn’t respond for a moment as she popped the cork out of the vial and chugged the lyrium inside. “Well, first things first, I promise you I’m definitely  _ not _ talking in Andraste’s name.” She wiped her mouth before stowing the vial back in her robes. She strode past Gwen, further up the road, towards the two horses who were still circling and nipping at each other. While she walked, she twirled the dagger, and Gwen watched as blue sparks shot out of a glinting stone in the hilt. The sparks leapt from the hilt to her right hand before running up her arm, across her shoulders, down her back, and into the leather of her robes. As they faded, she put the dagger back in its sheath. 

“Secondly…” she trailed off, frowning at the horses as they danced. One of the bags on the draft horse’s back had split, its contents spilling out on the road. “You wouldn’t happen to be any good with horses, would you?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Finally, finally, she mustered the willpower to pull herself up into a sitting position. Everything ached. Nothing made sense

“If you are, I need you to calm these two down,” she answered, “and in exchange, I can heal you and your horse.”

Gwen slowly pulled herself to her feet, grinding her teeth together to keep from moaning in pain. “And if I’m not any good with horses? I don’t suppose you plan on helping us then?”

The other woman folded her arms.“See, if I answer that, you’re just going to lie to me so you can get me to help you without doing anything for me in return.”

This woman was greeting her with distrust. Suspicion. This was a game of politics. Finally, something she understood. Something that made sense. And Gwen had always had an easier time playing politics than the game of playing nice with men who wanted to fuck her. “How about this; let’s start with names. We are both being terribly rude to each other at the moment.”

“Fair enough. I’m Salvoth,” the woman said. She took as step towards Gwen and offered her her hand. There was nothing in her face to suggest that she was lying. “Salvoth Sataa.”

And if she was not lying, Gwen had no reason to lie either. She took Salvoth’s hand and noted her firm grip and the smooth skin. “Gwendolyn Trevelyan.”


	8. The Moth Sees Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took longer than I thought it would... damn school getting in the way of my fanfiction writing!  
> But! I'm almost done with everything school-wise, and I still **really** want to get Act 1 drafted before the end of 2018. Hopefully my pace will pick up soon! Plus, the Dragon Age 4 teaser trailer has been VERY good for my writing; I'm hoping to get a one-shot about my Hawke Belladonna finished soon to celebrate 3-5 more years of waiting. I also just finished an Inquisition playthrough with Salvoth as Inquisitor, so I REALLY want to get to the actual events of the game soon.  
> Happy holiday to you all!!

Salvoth Sataa had a few inches on Gwen, but only a few. Her skin was pale grey, the color of the sky at dawn, between the rose-flushed clouds kissing the horizon and the dark grey still clinging to night. Her hair, what little of the tight, dense curls there were in her short mohawk, was an unnatural shade of pure snowy white, and her makeup was immaculate. All pastels, lavender eyeshadow and soft pink lipstick to match her carnation-colored eyes. Like Glen, her eyes must have changed when the magic first appeared.

 _Or Qunari have pink eyes,_ Gwen thought as Salvoth pulled her hand away. It occurred to her that this was the first time she had ever been close enough to a Qunari to notice details like eye color.

“So, Gwendolyn Trevelyan,” Salovth said, tugging Gwen out of her thoughts. She folded her arms and nodded in the direction of the horses. “Are you any good with horses or not?”

Gwen inhaled sharply, steeling herself for the general pain of moving. She marched as best she could towards the horses, which was to say she limped towards them, dragging her left leg behind her. Despite the less than flattering walk, she flashed Salvoth a smirk over her shoulder. “I’m _great_ with horses.”

She planted herself firmly in front of the two horses and clicked her tongue. Both horses swung their heads towards her, and Bright Dawn’s ears perked up while the unknown horse, a large Ferelden Forder, flattened its ears and snapped in her general direction. Gwen didn’t even blink. She had to project calmness; even the slightest indication of fear from her would validate this horse’s belief that there was something worth being scared about.

And projecting calmness was one thing Gwen was also great at.

She reached into a purse on her belt filled with sugarcubes. She offered one to Bright Dawn first, who was happy to disengage from the fight to eat from Gwen’s palm. The Forder snapped at Bright Dawn as she moved forward, but Gwen caught ahold of Bright Dawn’s reins. Even as she tried to bite back, Gwen held her firm. Meanwhile, she touched her other hand to the Charger’s neck and stroked her gently. The mare nickered softly but decided to ignore the Forder in favor of nosing Gwen in search of sugarcubes.

And now the Forder seemed to be aware of the fact that nothing was attacking it anymore. Gwen offered it a sugarcube as well. It spun in a tight circle before approaching her, sniffing her hand. Finding it suspicious, it recoiled in favor of prancing in place and tossing its head about. But after a minute of that, it approached again with its ears finally up. Not forward, but it was an improvement over pinned to its skull. The moment the sugarcube was out of her hand, Gwen grabbed the rope attached to the Forder’s halter. Sensing its entrapment, it pulled back hard.

“Quick, take Bright Dawn from me,” Gwen commanded as she released her horse’s reins. She wrapped both hands around the rope while the Forder dragged her forward. Pain blossomed in her leg, but she forced herself to pivot. She would not be able to get the Forder to stop while she was facing it, so she had to turn away. Had to dig her heels into the road and stand as firm as she could despite the sharp burn in her thigh.

But eventually, the Forder stopped tugging. Eventually, it stopped trying to scuttle backwards, and the rope between them went lax. Gwen let out a soft sigh before turning back towards it. She took another sugarcube out of her purse, and after a moment of considering it, the Forder walked towards her. She fed the horse with one hand and began stroking its neck with the other.

“There we go,” she murmured softly. She curled her fingers into his (a quick check behind the legs confirmed the stallion’s gender) dark brown coat. She stood just taller than his withers, but his size did not intimidate her. “Nice and easy.”

The Forder now calm, she looked back at Bright Dawn. She saw Salvoth standing beside the mare with her hands on her flank. There were no blue sparks, no shimmers of magic. Gwen approached the pair cautiously, tugging the Forder along with her. She saw Salvoth moving her fingers over one of the gashes in Bright Dawn’s side, leaving some sticky green-tinged residue in her wake. And when Gwen got close enough, she could smell something sweet and earthy, like fresh cut grass.

_Like Grand Cleric Lydia after she tended to the garden in the morning._

Gwen swallowed hard as her throat constricted, and she did her best to blink away the tears pricking her eyes. But every time she closed her eyes, she saw Ostwick’s Grand Cleric imprinted against her eyelids. Even after all the woman had done to her, Gwen found something beautiful in her severity. And that was painful.

“What—” Gwen cleared her throat, trying to drag herself back to reality. “What are you doing?”

Salvoth lifted her head and glanced over her shoulder for a moment. Sunlight glinted off the metal plating decorating the tips of her horns. “Healing,” she said as she turned back to her work. “The wounds aren’t too deep; all she needs is a bit of medicine.” She dipped her fingers into a small pouch cradled in the crook of her left arm. She scooped up another blob of the sweet sticky stuff and dabbed at the wound. “Your thigh is probably going to need more work, but you can at least get a head start. Clear away as much of the blood as you can; some water and a clean cloth should do the trick.

Gwen tied the Forder to a nearby tree before sitting down on a boulder. She tugged off her gloves and so she could pulled away the sliced leather padding and cotton with her bare hands. “What is that stuff, exactly?”

“Elfroot pulp, mostly,” Salvoth answered. Gwen pulled the waterskin off her belt and uncapped it, while Salvoth moved to Bright Dawn’s other side and began attending to the wound there. “Mixed with water, and I _think_ this is the batch that I added spindleweed to.”

Gwen shook droplets of water through the gap in her armor. “You made this yourself?”

“Yes?” Salvoth stared at Gwen over Bright Dawn’s back with one eyebrow quirked. “Have you seen how much elfroot grows in Ferelden? I would be stupid to buy poultices I can just make myself for free.”

“Buying the poultices is practically free too,” Gwen commented. “I’ve seen the prices for potions like these in apothecaries; it’s rarely ever more than a silver or two.”

Something in Salvoth’s face shifted. Hardened. “You say that like someone who’s always had ‘a silver or two’ on them.”

Gwen chewed the inside of her mouth to keep herself from blurting out something stupid, like “and you’re not?”. The negative response alone suggested even if the other woman had always had a silver or two to her name, she had to be more conscious with her money than Gwen.

And in a way, with just that one comment, Gwen became painfully aware of just how out of her element she was. Certainly, she knew her way around a sword far better than most noblewomen in the Free Marches, and possibly the rest of Southern Thedas as well. But she wasn’t dealing with noblewomen, or nobles at all. No, she had been thoroughly removed from high society, her only lingering ties being the ever-dwindling sum of sovereigns distributed about her belongings, and the assumptions she had about how life was supposed to be.

Yesterday, life certainly hadn’t been what she hoped for, or even expected. Two days of tragedy and betrayal ensured that. But yesterday had been horseback riding and camping. Yesterday still fell into the bounds of ‘familiar’, of ‘supposed to be’.

Today, she killed four people, got both herself and her mount injured, and had to come to terms with the fact that neither she nor her horse would still be alive were it not for the aid of a trans Qunari apostate. Gwen owed her life to a woman whose life she did not know, and likely could not understand.

And like most people suddenly thrust before what they do not understand, Gwen sought, almost desperately, to make it known.

“How do you know all this?” Gwen asked. Nonchalant as she could manage. The blood beneath her armor diluted and thinned, and began to run down her leg in rivulets. “Don’t mistake my tone; I’m incredibly grateful that you do know this, but… the Circle trains healers, but you cannot possibly be a Circle mage.”

“No,” Salvoth agreed with a snigger; she seemed happy for the change in subject. “I don’t think you’d find too many Qunari in Circles, that’s true. But I’m not telling you anything unless I know I can get something from you later.”

“A question for a question seems fair,” Gwen replied. She put her waterskin back on her belt and pulled out a handkerchief instead.

“When the magic first appeared, my parents found me a Tal-Vashoth mage to train me,” Salvoth said. “They helped me get the magic under control, gave me some idea of what I could do with it, but most everything else? Self-taught.” She paused, as if considering whether or not to elaborate further— before deciding not to. “So you. Trevelyan. I know that name. You’re some kind of noble, yeah?”

“Something like that, yes.”

“So what the hell are you doing out here all by yourself?” Salvoth asked. “Aren’t you rich noble types supposed to have retainers and ladies-in-waiting and horse-drawn carriages and your own little army to save you from dealing with shits like these?”

Gwen grimaced, and not only because the pain in her wound suddenly flared. “It’s certainly not required by law.” Her heart twisted as she pulled away the bloody cloth. The gash, narrow but deep, was now visible. “...though to be fair to your assessment of us noble types, I have all that stuff. Had, anyway.”

“Hm.” Salvoth considered her for a moment before tying Bright Dawn up near the Forder and making her way towards Gwen. “What happened?”

“I think it’s my turn to ask a question,” Gwen replied. “I can’t see why it matters to you, anyway.” Salvoth knelt down in front of her. Gwen moved her hands away and let the other woman touch her thigh. Smooth fingers brushing over the damaged flesh, probing the wound before pulling away to scoop up poultice. “It’s doubtful we’ll ever see each other again after this.”

“You started asking questions first,” Salvoth commented.

“Technically, you asked first when you asked if I was any good with— _shit_.” Gwen let out a hiss as the elfroot touched the wound.

“Well, we could do this in complete and utter silence,” Salvoth replied while she swept her thumb across Gwen’s thigh, leaving sticky gel in her wake. For a moment she paused to murmur something, so soft Gwen could barely hear it nor could she identify the language, but it wasn’t the King’s Tongue. “But that sounds awfully boring to me.”

Once more, blue sparks shot from the hilt of Salvoth’s dagger, and, using her as a conduit, they crawled up her torso and across her arms to Gwen’s thigh. Gwen sucked her breath in sharply. The magic burned, like hot microscopic pinpricks up and down the length of the wound and deep into her thigh. And the pinpricks pulled. Knitting the flesh back together. “Fair enough,” she said through gritted teeth, “but I’m fairly sure you’re almost finished; ‘this’ is almost over.”

Salvoth shrugged. “It doesn’t have to be.” She gave Gwen’s thigh one more lookover, checking her handiwork in the form of newly scarred flesh. “I was actually tracking these bandits; they raided a town just a few miles west of here, and they hired me to get their shit back.” She stood and surveyed the road. The dead and bloody bodies, and the belongings that had spilled from the Forder’s bags. “As you can see, I’m short a few bags now, and I’m sure they had some of the stuff on their person. I could use an extra hand getting it all back.”

Gwen swallowed thickly as she stood again, grimacing. “That sounds very charitable of you, but I have somewhere I need to be. If I’m delayed by even a day…” Her chances of running into the other rich noble types from the Free Marches increased dramatically.

“It’s only a couple of hours off the main road,” Salvoth insisted. “Two hours one way, two hours the other— that has to be fine.” She paused and, like earlier, something in her face shifted. Gwen saw the same hardness, the same sudden distrust and unease. “Unless, of course, you’re one of _those_ rich noble types.”

“‘Those’ rich noble types?” Gwen echoed, her tone, much like her mood, falling somewhere between inquisitive and defensive.

“The ones who can’t ever be bothered to help other people if they don’t get something out of it in return,” Salvoth stated as she folded her arms. “The particularly selfish ones.”

Gwen knew exactly the kind of people Salvoth was referring to. Most of her family members fell into the category of people who were uninterested in doing anything unless it furthered their own personal ambition— or, on rare occasion, the personal ambition of a select few others. And she knew she fell into that category too.

But more than selfish, she was proud. Too proud to stay in Ostwick and let Caer ruin her reputation. Too proud to allow this woman who was little more than a stranger walk away with such a negative- and correct- impression of her.

She smiled as sweetly as she could manage, her best charitable, philanthropic smile. “What’s a few hours if it’s spent helping others?”

Salvoth rolled her eyes. “Please; don’t fake a conscience on my behalf. Let’s just get going.” She turned away in favor of pacing about the road, gathering up the scattered loot. Gwen began to pick up her belongings as well. Her gloves, sword, backpack. And finally, with no small degree of reluctance, she made her way towards Grenner’s body. The bandit with a face stretched in agony and Gwen’s knife sticking out of his eye. She had to swallow the bile rising in her throat as she pulled it out.

“You can’t claim to be _that_ morally superior compared to me,” Gwen commented. She pulled the handkerchief out again and began cleaning the blood off her seax. “You said you were hired to do this, after all. You’re being paid to help others.”

“I’m not in a position to turn down coin when it’s offered to me,” Salvoth said. “I stopped in the town on my way west, and I volunteered to help track down the bandits, and they volunteered to pay me in return.” She paused, and in the silence, Gwen stored her knife and turned back towards her Qunari companion. “Do you have any room in the saddlebags?”

Gwen took a moment to mentally catalogue the contents of each bag. The right one had chunks of hard bread and salted beef and potatoes and cans of pickled lemons and dried spices from all across Thedas. Her food supplies for the next week. The other had paper, her inkwell, quill, some small bathing cloths, and loose underclothes— and all the extra gold she could not fit into her coin purse.

“There is space in both,” Gwen said, “but let me put stuff in the left one; there are some… personal items in there.”

Salvoth shrugged. She had broad shoulders, a contrast with the other women who had recently kept Gwen company, but not unlike Gwen herself. “Suit yourself,” she replied as she opened the right saddlebag. “As a small tip, though, people with strong moral convictions don’t usually need to accuse others of pretending to have better morals just so they can feel better about their own moral compass.”

Gwen fought to keep a scowl off her face. “I wasn’t accusing you of anything.”

The corners of Salvoth’s lips twisted upwards, and she gave a soft snicker. “Alright, but you are compensating for _something._ ”

Gwen huffed, her face warming. Outmaneuvered in her own attempt to regain ground in this conversation. Once again disarmed and out of place. She cast her eyes to the ground and fidgeted with the pommel of her sword. “Just tell me what I can do to get us leaving faster.”

“What, no witty rejoinder?” Salvoth asked. “Lady Trevelyan, I’m disappointed in you!”

“You’re disappointed that I’m not arguing with you more,” Gwen said with a frown, “which would only make the next several hours that much less tolerable for both of us?”

Salvoth shrugged. “I suppose I mostly just expected you to be angrier about me getting under your skin. Your type usually does,” she finished shoving items into the saddlebag, now swollen to the point of barely being able to shut, “but, credit where credit is due, you seem to have a decent amount of self-control. Do you have any space in that backpack?”

“Definitely.” Gwen pulled the backpack off and offered it to Salvoth. The other woman crossed towards her while Gwen reflected on the unfortunate fact that for Ostwick’s elite, self-control was not just a virtue but a necessity. Absolutely required to prevent being cast out of those circles for rudeness or uncouthness or worse. “If you want to make me angry, you’ll have to try a bit harder. I hate to say it, but self-restraint is one of my top skills.”

Salvoth took Gwen’s backpack as a smirk played on her lips. “Before or after working with horses?”

“Before.”

“And does humility make that list?”

Gwen found herself smiling as well. Relaxing. “Why, of course— it’s at the very top.”


	9. Safely Through the Paths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one month?? what is this, CHRISTMAS????  
> (Im very clever)

As they moved north, the forest of white-barked trees gave way to farmland dotted by small cottages and barns. The fields themselves had been ploughed and seeded, but it wasn’t until they were closer to the village that short grain stalks began popping up. A handful of people tended to the land, marching up and down the rows of raised dirt wielding shears. About a mile away from the village, a woman ran through the field chasing after a flock of blackbirds who refused to be discouraged by her yelling and flapping.

Gwen watched the scene unfold as they walked, and after a minute, her companion took notice as well. Salvoth squinted hard at the noise in the distance before pulling out her dagger. In such close quarters, Gwen realized the gem set in the pommel was an amethyst. The other woman spun the knife in her hand, and for a moment, the amethyst emitted a faint green light. A chill raced down Gwen’s spine. Something about that light made her shiver.

But it was gone in a moment, and in the next, Salvoth laughed, warm and deep and loud. She tossed the knife up and down once, twice, before chucking it high into the air. In the distance, a small golden orb appeared in the midst of the whirling feathers and open, shrieking beaks.

With a low  _ boom _ , the orb exploded into a shower of golden light. The blackbirds screamed and darted off as quickly as they could. All the while, Salvoth kept laughing until the dagger landed neatly in her hand.

It was a kind of magic which Gwen had never seen before. So unrestrained. Free.

Half an hour later, they arrived at the village proper, though it was difficult to call it a village at all. With only a dozen small buildings erected around a circular, unpaved courtyard, Gwen knew neighborhoods in Ostwick which were larger. The village did not even have a proper gate; the dirt road they had been travelling on simply snaked through a gap in the buildings and dumped them on the circle. Across from this entrance sat the Chantry. It was easily the largest building in the village, as all the others were small, one-family cottages. The only exception was an eight-stall stable to the right of the Chantry, which currently housed two Coastland Draft Horses and an Amaranthine Charger.

The village also had no defenses to speak of. Gwen noted that it must make a tempting target for any bandit, and an easy one even for those thick enough to parade their ill-gotten goods up a major road.

The courtyard itself was empty, except for an elderly man sitting in what appeared to be a modified volante carriage. Antivan in origin, every occupied volante Gwen had seen had been attached to a horse. The rods which might have connected the large back wheels to a mount had been removed, however. A second set of smaller wheels had been added to the front in their place. The man sitting in the carriage put his hands on those wheels and leaned forward, sticking his head out around the hood attached to the cart’s body.

“Revered Mother Irena!” he called towards the Chantry. “Come quick! That Qunari mercenary is back!”

Gwen frowned slightly. “You didn’t mention you were a mercenary.”

“It wasn’t obvious?” Salvoth asked, perfectly shaped eyebrows arched. Gwen shook her head. “What did you think I did for a living?”

“I hadn’t given a lot of thought to it,” Gwen said. “Besides, I’ve never heard of a lone mercenary before.”

“I was separated from my company,” Salvoth replied with a shrug. “Help me start pulling bags down, will you?” Gwen nodded. One arm looped through Bright Dawn’s reins, she untied the ropes securing her backpack to the mare’s saddle. “My company, the Valo-kas, came down to Ferelden a few weeks ago for a  _ very _ lucrative job in the Frostbacks.” As Salvoth spoke, she pulled sacks off of the back of the Ferelden Forder, whom she had dubbed ‘Aqun-Athlok Anaan’ a few hours ago. When Gwen had asked what the Qunlat phrase meant, the other woman had simply laughed. “Unfortunately, the day before we were offered the job, I received a letter from my sister inviting me to her wedding, so I went to Dairsmuid before travelling down here by myself.”

Gwen detached the saddlebags and set them down on the ground beside her backpack. “Where in the Frostbacks is your—”

“Thank the Maker!” Gwen was cut off by a loud yell. She turned to see a pair of women approaching them, with another woman following behind as she pushed the older man’s carriage. The women all wore a Chantry garb variant which Gwen had never seen before. All clad in identical pink robes, it was impossible to distinguish their rank. Ostwick would never tolerate such a lack of distinctions. “Oh, thank the Maker,” repeated the woman pushing the volante, “and blessed be Andraste, you made it back to us safely.”

“Oh, Revered Mother Irena, was there ever any doubt?” Salvoth asked, suave in tone despite the darkening of her cheeks. “What’s most important is that I brought back all your shit.”

“What is most important is that you are alive and safe,” the Revered Mother corrected firmly. She stepped around the carriage so she could wrap her hands, leathery in texture and deep copper in color, around Salvoth’s arms. The two women exchanged a quick kiss on each cheek- an Antivan custom. “Astoria, Drya, round up everyone so we can get all of this distributed and our guests fed before sundown.”

The other priestesses ran off while the old man cleared his throat. “And who is this, Salvoth?” he asked, nodding at Gwen.

Gwen stepped towards him, right hand outstretched. “I am Gwendolyn Trevelyan, daughter of Bann Trevelyan of Ostwick and unfortunate enough to have encountered the bandits you sent Salvoth after.” The man took her hand, his grip soft and limp and his skin a blotched sandy-white. “They attacked me,” she paused, glancing over her shoulder at Salvoth. Their eyes met, and something in Gwen’s stomach squirmed, “and Salvoth saved me. I don’t believe I’ve thanked her for that yet.”

“Helping me carry everything here is thanks enough,” Salvoth assured her, “unless you think you need to thank me more. In which case I will happily trade gold for ‘your welcome’s.”

A surprisingly feasible suggestion, but before Gwen could point that out, Irena said, “Bless you, Lady Trevelyan, and thank you for helping return our belongings to us.” Gwen pulled away from the older man just in time to receive two kisses of her own. “I am Revered Mother Irena, and this is Arellis.” She nodded at the man. “Unfortunately, we have little to offer as reward for your help, except the sovereigns we promised Salvoth.”

“Thank you, but I do not need a reward,” Gwen said politely. “In fact, as soon as we remove all of your belongings from my bags, I will have to be going.”

Irena’s face fell. “You’re leaving so soon?”

Gwen nodded. “I have somewhere I need to be, and I cannot be delayed any longer.”

“It’s almost night fall,” Arellis commented. “You will not be able to make it far on the road.”

Gwen let out a soft sigh. Trying not to be ensnared by overwhelming hospitality was certainly not the worst problem she could have, but it was still a problem. She couldn’t risk the rest of the Free Marchers catching up with her. She couldn’t risk seeing those people again. “I’ll be able to get back to the main road at least, and I am well equipped and supplied.”

There was a beat of silence; Irena and Arellis both looked like they wanted to protest further, but before they could, Salvoth announced, “Well, let’s get what’s in your bags unloaded, then,” she held out her hand, “and you can be on your way.”

Gwen considered her for a moment, trying to read the other woman’s face. For someone who spent so much time laughing she already had lines developing around the edges of her pink-colored eyes, Salvoth had a decent card-playing face. Perfectly blank and betraying nothing— except the slightest wrinkle, low on the brow, where her eyebrows were ever so slightly scrunched together. Was she… disappointed that Gwen was taking off so soon?

She chewed the inside of her mouth as she reached for her backpack and held it out. Now it was Salvoth’s turn to hesitate before acting. They held each other’s gaze, and Gwen felt that same thing in her stomach twist again. Was  _ she _ disappointed to be taking off so soon? To be leaving Salvoth so soon, likely to never see her again?

Salvoth took the backpack from her, and they each turned away, focusing instead on pulling trinkets out of their respective bags. Still, Gwen’s thoughts kept churning even as she rummaged through her saddlebags and pulled out the various odds and ends stuffed in there.

A small pouch filled with multi-colored gems, fragmented and flawed.

_ Why would I be disappointed? _

A tarnished-silver locket.

_ I’ve only known her for a few hours. _

Assorted gardening supplies of fine quality. A polished trowel, a garden fork, a sharp hand-held hoe.

_ You only knew Sophia for a few hours too. _

The dull tiara which had started all of this.

“Where is it you have to get to in such a hurry anyway?”

Gwen jerked her head up, pulled out of her thoughts by Salvoth’s voice. Teething at the inside of her cheek, she didn’t respond at first. “It isn’t a matter of where I am going or when I get there,” she answered at last as she ducked her head down, “but I do need to get there ahead of some other people.”

“Alright, but where is ‘there’?” Salvoth pressed.

“The Temple of Sacred Ashes, in the Frostbacks; it’s the site of—”

“The Divine Conclave.” Gwen looked up from the saddlebags again, and she saw her companion staring at her with widening eyes. “I’m headed there too.”

Gwen blinked. She had assumed the Conclave’s other attendants would be like the ones she with whom she had left the Free Marches. Grand Clerics. Knight-Captains. Representatives from noble houses all across Thedas. Some actual mages, of course- but not Qunari mercenaries. “Why?”

“That’s the job,” Salvoth replied with a shrug. “The, uh…” she wrinkled her brow, “what do you call the head of the Chantry?”

“Divine Justinia?”

Salvoth nodded. “Yeah, her. Divine Justinia wanted a ‘neutral’,” she snickered at the word, “third party keeping peace between the templars and mages, so she hired the Valo-kas. We’re anything but neutral, but we’re also getting paid for her assumptions, so, in the meantime.” She set the backpack down and slid the armful of trinkets back inside. With both hands free, she drew her staff again. It was a slender, long piece of beige wood, adorned with a dark ridged metal on either end. “I think this makes a passable walking stick.”

“The walking stick of a rich noble type, perhaps.” A smile tugged at the corners of Gwen’s mouth, and Salvoth chuckled while she stowed her staff once more. “I think my great-uncle had one like it.”

The other woman rolled her eyes. “Trust me when I say this is pretty simple as far as staff design goes. Nothing like the clunky iron rods the Circles give out, but,” she let out a snort of laughter, “’ve seen worse. Way worse. We were in Hasmal once, and we met this elf who had escaped the Imperium with a magister’s stolen staff. You wanna talk about the staff of a rich and noble type, this thing was made out of some shiny green metal, and it had veins of lyrium running up and down the length, so it was  _ constantly _ pulsing and glowing.” She grinned, showing off the gap in her front teeth. “It was nearly eight feet long too. Talk about compensating for something, yeah?”

Gwen found herself smiling and stifling a chuckle of her own. Nothing quite reminded her of home like ostentatious displays of wealth. But it only lasted for a moment. One moment before she remembered home was a place she had been cast out of twice now. One moment before she remembered what home had done to her and her brother.

The smile fell from her face, and she let out a soft sigh before looking down again. “Well, now it seems rather silly to be leaving so soon.” As she spoke, she returned to the task of pulling items out of the saddlebags. “But my point still stands. I need to stay ahead of some people.”

She couldn’t see the other woman’s face, but based on the sigh she exhaled, Gwen imagined she was frowning. “Yeah…”

For a moment, all that came after that word was empty space and uneasy silence. Then, someone cleared their throat. Gwen glanced up once more and saw Irena smiling politely at them. Bright Dawn and Aqun-Athlok Anaan had been taken to the stables and tied up, though the bags on Anaan’s back had been left behind. The courtyard was now teeming with townspeople who clustered around Gwen and Salvoth, most of them wearing expectant hope on their faces. Gwen also noted the handful casting dark looks at her Qunari companion.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt your conversation,” Irena said. Her voice dragged Gwen away from sending a few choice dark looks of her own, “but we brought out some tables,” she gestured to a set of pale birch tables beside her, “for you to place everyone’s belongings onto.”

“Than you, Your Reverence,” Gwen said. She made her way over to the table and unloaded the goods in her arms, spreading them out across the low surface. She walked back to her saddlebags to hoist them up and carry them over to the table. There, she continued unloading them while Revered Mother Irena continued speaking.

“Everyone, this is Gwendolyn Trevelyan,” she announced. “She was kind enough to help the mercenary we hired to retrieve our belongings.”

“The  _ apostate _ you hired!” called out a man in Templar armor.

The saddlebags emptied, as well as the backpack, Gwen went to grab one of the sacks next, and Salvoth went for the other. As they both knelt down, Gwen kept her eyes trained to Salvoth’s face. She expected her to be bothered by the comment, but her face remained blank. Meanwhile, Irena blanched. “Not this again, Treynor. Are you really so proud that you would not accept help when the Maker sends it to us?”

“All the good deeds in the world will not make her any less likely to become an abomination,” Treynor, the templar, snapped.

That made Salvoth twitch- a sudden tightening of the jaw, a rigidness in her shoulders. Gwen grimaced, partially out of sympathy for her companion and partially out of annoyance with herself for agreeing with this man. He wasn’t wrong; the only defenses against possession were willpower and Tranquility. That was what the Chantry had taught her. That mages had to be taken away for the exact reason which Treynor brought up now. That they had to be feared for it too.

She recalled that day when she was 13 and she woke up to realize something in her brother had changed. When she saw his eyes had turned yellow and they went running to their parents. When they learned that the magic which had laid dormant in Glen since birth had now awakened. When a stern-faced Knight-Commander named Caitlyn came to the house to drag him away. How many hours had Gwen wasted after that day, sitting in the absolute darkness of what was once  _ their  _ room, convincing herself that her brother was an exception? That magic and mages were to be feared, yes, but not him. Never him.

Salvoth could be an exception too.

But how many exceptions could be made before it is the rule that is wrong?

_ The Chantry that is wrong. _

Gwen came back into herself suddenly- painfully. She let out a sharp gasp and reeled away from the table, now full with the items she had absent-mindedly, mechanically, placed there. Her heart slammed against her sternum as her hands began to shake. Her eyes darted about the courtyard, looking for something she could not name but knew was the source of her sudden panic. Grand Cleric Lydia with her voice full of bitter ice to tell her  _ this _ was more morally offensive than trying to kiss another woman. Andraste reincarnate, wreathed in flame and here to burn her for her heresy. Or quite possibly even the Maker Himself.

But after a moment, all she could find was Salvoth, staring at her with both eyebrows raised, concern written across her face. “Bloody hell, are you alright?”

“Fine,” Gwen exhaled the word sharply. The breath did its part to settle her overactive mind, at least long enough to wrap her hands around the edge of the table and clench it until her knuckles turned white. She bowed her head, dug into the wood a little harder, and forced herself to take some deep breaths until everything steadied. “Fine…” 

She lifted her head and assessed the courtyard again. There were no phantasms of her fear. In fact, the very man who had incited this spiral had left, though a pair of templars and all of the villagers remained. And Revered Mother Irena was still standing behind her.

Gwen’s pulse began to climb up her throat as she stared at the suns embroidered on the other woman’s dress, but she swallowed thickly and pressed her palms into the edge of the table until it receded. And then she let go of the table and turned. “Revered Mother Irena,” she said, the tremors in her voice and hands gone. “I think I will stay.”

The Revered Mother frowned, knitting her thick eyebrows. “Are you sure, dear?”

“At least for dinner,” Gwen replied. She paused, glanced over her shoulder back at Salvoth, and took a step closer to Irena, voice dropping. “And, if you do not mind, Your Reverence, I would like to talk to you about some issues of faith.” She stopped again, this time to muster up a charming smile. “You could consider it my reward for helping Salvoth.”

Irena smiled as well. “Of course.” She peered around Gwen at the table. “Have you finished unloading everything?”

Gwen looked back as well. She could not say exactly how long she had spent stuck in her thoughts, but in that time, she had managed to empty her bag. Salvoth was still standing over the tables; she held a short knife in her hand as she searched for a sliver of open space to place it. As she balanced it on top of an unidentified leather pouch, she looked up and grinned. “All done.”

“I’ve finished as well,” Gwen said.

Irena nodded before taking a few steps back, moving towards the edge of the crowd as she cleared her throat. “Everyone! All of our stolen belongings have been placed on the tables before you. Please come reclaim your things in a patient, orderly manner. Astoria, Drya,” the young priestesses were beside her in a moment, while the villagers began shuffling towards Gwen and Salvoth, “start preparing dinner for our guests, will you?”

“I’ll help cook,” Salvoth offered.

“You don’t have to do that,” Irena said quickly.

“I want to,” Salvoth insisted, already moving around the tables and towards the Revered Mother. With her not hovering over the tables, the townspeople suddenly seemed much more willing to approach them. Gwen understood why her friend wanted to be out of the courtyard so badly. “I like it, and I have some spices in the packs I left here that could help.”

Irena smiled at that. “Very well. Sisters, take Salvoth with you to the rectory’s kitchen. And Gwendolyn,” she turned back to Gwen and offered her her arm, “would you like to talk in the Chantry?”

Gwen’s heart rate flared, and she bit the inside of her lip until it settled again. This was no time for fear; she was about to get answers. She was about to understand. But as she nodded and took Revered Mother Irena’s arm, as they began to walk towards the small steeple, her stomach started to churn. It was a smaller building than the one in Ostwick— practically quaint by comparison. No arching facades with scenes from the Chant of Light rendered in ornate stone carvings. No towering marble columns, their length and might visible even from the outside through the unfinished aisle. No cavernous chambers, hallowed and hollow. And yet as she and Irena reached the front door, which was little more than a plane of wood, prickles of anxiety crawled up and down her spine.

For a moment, she considered turning away. Pulling back and leaving without so much as another thought given to this strange small village in the Ferelden countryside or the strange, blasphemous thoughts it had inspired in her.

But only for a moment— before the curiosity overcame the fear, before she pushed open the door and stepped into the Chantry.


	10. Soul Seeking the Light Eternal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I promise to start updating more regularly in December? Yes. Did I get sick and binge-listened to The Adventure Zone instead of writing? ...yes.
> 
> BUT at 59,000 words and 17 chapters, act 1 of this fic is DONE. Regular updates are going to be happening every two weeks while I try to make some headway on act 2 before school consumes my life again... wish me luck.

Gwen’s anxieties eased as she stepped into the warmth of the small Ferelden Chantry. She had yet to find a Chantry which was not doused in light, one of the holiest symbols Andrastianism had to offer. In Ostwick, that light came in through colossal stained glass windows, casting diluted and dull colors against the stark bone-white interior. Here, it came from well-placed and well-maintained hearths with roaring fires inside. There was a warmth and comfort here which Gwen had always been hard-pressed to find in Ostwick.

Revered Mother Irena gave her a small smile, seeming to sense her relaxation. They made their way through the pews, and Gwen noted that the nave itself was rather small. The majority of the church was taken up by tall bookshelves and worn but soft chairs. A Mother sat in the transept surrounded by young children, faces painted with sweat and dirt but watching her with wide eyes as she read through a weathered blue book.

Irena led her to the other end of the transept, into a small alcove bordered by bookcases and a fireplace. A half-dozen chairs were arranged in a semicircle around the hearth, and Irena sat down in one closest to the fireplace. Gwen took the seat opposite hers.

For a moment, there was only silence between them, still and quiet except for the crackling of logs in the fireplace. Gwen found herself staring at the flames, unable to keep Irena’s eye while the other woman waited so patiently for her to speak. So she looked into the fire, feeling its heat kiss her cheeks, wondering what the Maker’s bride had felt as she watched that same flame move closer and closer to her body. Wondering what it must have felt like to burn.

_ It must have hurt like hell.  _

“This land is owned by a lord, yes?”

“Indeed.”

“Why not ask him to deal with the bandits?” Gwen asked softly. “Surely he has a vested interested in keeping his land safe.”

“His most vested interest is in keeping himself safe,” Irena replied. “A month ago, Bann Gareon pulled every guard he had from the villages and into his estate. He is paranoid that the foreigners brought by the Conclave will do him harm.” She paused. Gwen spared a glance away from the fire and saw the slight, knowing smile on Irena’s lips. “But I know what you are really asking. Why did I ask Salvoth instead? Why not ask the Bann? Why not send my own people, or even my own Templars, after them?”

Gwen shifted in her seat, pinching the back of her left hand between her thumb and forefinger and twisting at the pale flesh. “That is what I am getting at, yes. I suppose I’m not used to seeing an apostate met with anything but hostility. Where I am from, any apostate, no matter how helpful and kind, would be thrown into the Circle—” When she blinked, her brother’s face flashed across her eyelids. “Or worse.”

Irena shrugged. “Different people see things differently.”

True enough. Gwen doubted Salvoth or Arvis viewed themselves as the threat that the Chantry made them out to be.  _ Glen used to.  _ She recalled the earliest of his letters from the Circle, scribbled with a quivering quill.  _ He was so scared of the magic inside him, more so than anyone else in the family. It was what made him such a dedicated scholar. _

“Fair enough, but the Chantry is an institution,” she said. “Made up of different people, yes, but a singular institution nonetheless, and it teaches its subjects that mages must be locked away in the Circles for their own good.” She fell silent for a moment as she tried to corral her twisted thoughts into order. A dull headache pulsed behind her eyelids, and the warmth of the fireplace was sending sweat crawling down her spine.  _ It must have hurt like hell. Why would He put his bride through that pain?  _ She swallowed. “Are they…” She shook her head until the ghostly image of Andraste on the sacrificial pyre vanished. “Is the Chantry wrong?”

Revered Mother Irena blinked. “I cannot pretend to speak for the entire Chantry. I can only tell you what I believe, and what I believe the Maker intended.”

“I know what the Maker intended,” Gwen hissed, for there was no part of the Chant of Light she knew better than Transfigurations 1.  _ Foul and corrupt are they / Who have taken His gift / And turned it against His children. / They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones.  _ Was Glen Maleficarum too? 

But the answer didn’t matter when Gwen realized the Revered Mother was staring at her with narrow eyes. “My apologies, Your Reverence,” she said with a sigh. “I should not have snapped… I would love to hear what you believe.”

Irena was quiet for a moment before saying, “I believe that the Maker intended for magic to be a tool. Like most any tool, it can be used for good and evil, but that is dependent on the one who wields it.”

“So it is not dangerous,” Gwen said, “not inherently, anyway.”

“Not inherently,” Irena agreed, “but, again, like most any tool, it is most dangerous in the hands of someone who does not know how to use it.” She paused to tuck a thick lock of dark hair behind her ear. In Ostwick, all but the Grand Cleric wore short red skoufias, and she knew Orlesian clergy had hats as well— tall, ugly things. Despite the considerable difference in temperature between the Free Marches and Ferelden, Revered Mother Irena’s head was bare. “That is the purpose Circles should serve, in my opinion. Young mages must be taught, but there is no reason to lock them away from the rest of the world, and certainly not for their whole lives.”

“I know a Grand Cleric who would disagree with you,” Gwen murmured, images of Lydia playing against her eyelids as she dug her nails into the back of her hand.

Irena laughed at that. The wrinkles around her eyes and the corners of her lips crinkled. “I’m sure there are plenty of women in the Chantry who disagree with me. There is a reason I asked to be stationed in Ferelden— there is only one Circle, and far less Chantry politicking.”

Gwen frowned. “If there were more Chantry politicking, you might be able to change Circles for the better.”

“If only that were true.” Irena sighed, uncrossed her legs, and leaned back in her seat. “More likely I would have been cast out of the Chantry entirely. I may not be shaping our future the way Divine Justinia and her Conclave are, but I can do my own, small good here.” She smiled, and her gaze drifted to the side. Gwen glanced over and saw her eyes fixed on the gold sun mounted above the fireplace mantle. “Sometimes the small is all we can do when everything else seems impossible.”

“The small,” Gwen echoed, her voice soft as she mulled all this over, “like allowing a Qunari apostate to perform a small errand to earn her keep in the eyes of the town’s templars.”

Irena turned back to her, smile widening. “Precisely. Salvoth had been travelling off the main road and stumbled upon us accidentally. I would have been happy to send her on her way, but Treynor and the others wanted to see her clapped in irons and sent to Calenhad.”

Gwen’s own words echoed in her mind.  _ Stay back, apostate!  _ “Were I not so badly injured when we first met, I might have felt the same way.” Her stomach twisted with guilt, and it only knotted harder when a small voice whispered that it was justified because if magic was a tool, then it was a deadly one.  _ All the good deeds in the world will not make her any less likely to become an abomination… and now I am right back where I started. _

“Why?”

Gwen blinked at that, thrown off guard by such a short response. She had been expecting admonishment, hoping that it would be served with some sort of validation that it wasn’t her fault she had those thoughts in her head. But instead she got a simple question. And she knew the answer was because she had not put in the effort to take those thoughts out.

“Because I am a fool,” Gwen said, “and I owe someone an apology.” She stood. There was an odd tightness in her chest, something caught in her throat— and despite it, she felt more comfortable in her skin than she had in several days. “Thank you, Revered Mother.”

“Of course, dear.” Irena stood as well. “It is my duty as a servant of the Maker to spread His word,” she strode towards Gwen and rested her hands on her arms, squeezing gently, “and it is the least I could do to repay you for bringing back what was stolen from us. If there is anything else I can do for you…”

Gwen was prepared to smile and say ‘no, thank you’, but the words snagged on her tongue. One last question formed in their place. She could not say what prompted it. Perhaps it was the suns on Irena’s robes, spun from dull yellow threads, and in such close quarters, Gwen could see that those threads were frayed. They were not yellow or frayed in Ostwick, but they were still suns. Or perhaps it was the squeeze. The hands were different. Irena’s hands were chestnut brown, the fingers short and broad, nothing like the hands in Ostwick, skeletal in shape and color.

But the gesture was the same.

“There is—” Gwen cleared her throat. “I do have one more question, actually. The Maker, He… He doesn’t care too terribly much about sexuality, does He?”

“If He does, He has not told me anything,” Irena replied, “and I think any of His servants who would tell you otherwise are liars.”

The tightness around Gwen’s neck eased, and she let out a heavy sigh. “Thank you, Your Reverence.” And, because she had offered her fair share of ‘thank you’s simply for politeness, she added, “Truly. You have… you have no idea what it means to hear you say that.”

Irena smiled, and she squeezed Gwen’s arms again. This time, the gesture brought only warmth and comfort. “Trust me, I have some idea. Now,” she pulled away from Gwen, “you mentioned you were going to speak to Salvoth, yes?”

“Yes.” Gwen nodded. The tension she had been carrying in her throat apparently had nowhere else to go but to diffuse through the rest of her body because she could feel herself starting to shake. Slight tremors formed in her fingers, and the knot that had been sitting in her chest since she had stood began to twist. She had to do something about this.  _ Now _ . “Yes. Could you point me towards the rectory?”

Following Revered Mother Irena’s instructions, Gwen found herself crossing an unpaved stretch of grass behind the Chantry towards a small wooden house. The walk reminded her of her daily pilgrimage from the Trevelyan Estate to the Ostwick Chantry. The daily march to seek forgiveness and favor.

The Ostwick Chantry had, however, never smelled as good as the rectory. With the large windows flung open to let plumes of light grey smoke billow out, the scent of burning wood and strong spices wafted through the air.

The front door was open as well, allowing Gwen a glimpse into the rectory. The house had no foyer, instead immediately opening onto a parlor with a raging hearth in the center. Through the faint haze, she saw Salvoth towering above the fire, a slight scowl on her face as she stepped back and the tips of her horns scratched along the roof. The Sisters stood beside her. One held a half dozen shallow rust-colored clay bowls, precariously resting on her arms.

“The stew is ready?” the other asked as she shuffled closer to Salvoth.

“Ready.” Salvoth took another step back and reached for the black cauldron hanging above the hearth from a hook. Though her hands were not gloved, she was able to touch the metal of the handle, which must have been scorching hot, with ease. She offered the pot to the Sister, who picked it up with her hands covered in thick cloth. “You can take that to wherever we’re eating, and I’ll be finished with the bread soon.”

The Sisters nodded before making their way towards the door. Gwen ducked into the rectory and out of their way. As the cauldron moved past her, she caught another whiff of the heavily spiced stew. Her mouth began to water, and her stomach rumbled as she smelled the food which promised to taste better than anything she had made for herself over the past few days.

Gwen made her way deeper into the house, though she did not make it far before the smoke started to sting her eyes. “How you are you not unbearably hot right now?” she asked as she wiped the sweat from her brow.

Salvoth glanced over her shoulder, a smile tugging at her lips before she turned back to her work. “It’s a Qunari thing, I think.” She reached into a camping bag resting against the wall beside her. She pulled out a glass jar, the bottom lined with something beige. “We can’t stand the cold, but heat is perfectly fine. Preferable, even.”

Gwen blinked rapidly, the tears forming in her eyes offering some reprieve from the smoke. “You must be very excited to be going to the  _ Frost _ backs.”

“Oh, I am just over the moon,” Salvoth set the jar onto a nearby counter before grabbing a wide pan from where it hung in a row of various other cooking utensils, “thinking about all of that snow and ice.” Gwen chuckled, which earned her a mouthful of acrid gas, but hearing Salvoth snicker as well made it almost worth it. She made herself comfortable leaning against the wall while Salvoth unscrewed the jar. “So, what brings you to the rectory, Lady Trevelyan?”

“You don’t have to call me that,” Gwen said quickly. It was difficult to tell with so much heat rolling off the hearth, but she thought she might be blushing. “And I came to speak to you.”

Salvoth pressed one hand to her breast as she grabbed a ladle with the other. “I’m flattered,  _ Lady _ Trevelyan.”

Gwen barely suppressed the urge to roll her eyes, and only because the nervous energy was back. The trembling of her fingers and the churning of her stomach and the tightening of her chest. “This is serious. I’m…” The words caught in her throat for a moment. She was very good at apologizing when that apology was fake. Being able to swallow her pride long enough to pry a decent lie off her tongue was easy enough, and yet for some reason, now, when the apology was genuine, she couldn’t choke the words out. Why did the lie feel easier than the truth?

“You’re…?”

Gwen blinked and realized Salvoth was staring at her, one eyebrow raised.

“Sorry,” she blurted out. “I- I’m sorry.” Now it was Salvoth’s turn to blink. She had the jar tipped over above the ladle. Whatever was inside was slowly sliding out, but she paid it no mind until the ladle overflowed and the beige liquid started crawling down the sides. She jumped as it hit her thumb, and she whipped around. And with those rose-colored eyes no longer fixated on her, Gwen could continue. “For how I acted when we first met. Had I been in better shape, I would have attacked you, for no other reason than that you were an apostate. And I’m sorry for that.”

“That’s, um…” Salvoth trailed off as she tipped the liquid (likely some kind of batter based on the viscosity) back into the jar. She dropped the ladle and reached for a worn rag, wiping off her hands. “Good for you, I guess.”

Now Gwen raised an eyebrow. “‘Good for me’?”

“Yeah. You realized you did something shitty and you fessed up to it.” Sighing, Salvoth bowed her head and grasped the edge of the counter. For a moment, she stood perfectly still, except for the heaving of her shoulders. “Good for you. But I’m not sure I want to accept your apology… not yet, anyway.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

With another sigh, Salvoth released the counter. She picked up the ladle and jar again, pouring batter into the ladle once more. “So let’s just go back to whatever weird banter thing we had before, yeah?”

Gwen frowned. The knot in her chest had turned into a stone in her gut, weighing her down and emptying her out. “If that’s what you want…?”

“It is.”

Gwen chewed the inside of her cheek for a moment before pulling herself up from the wall. She walked across the room towards the counter so she could get a better look at the batter sitting in the ladle. “What are you making?”

The tension in the other woman’s broad shoulders eased just a bit. “I’m not sure if there’s a word for it in the King’s Tongue, but the Qunlat is  _ issalanom _ .” With the ladle in her right hand, she picked up the wide pan she had grabbed earlier. She moved towards the hearth once more. She held the pan out over the flames, not flinching as the heat lapped at her. “It’s a staple of cuisine in northern Rivain, where my great-grandparents lived before they left the Qun.”

“I can’t say I know much about the Qun” Gwen admitted as she stared at the haze above the pan, “but from what I have read, doesn’t that make you… not a Qunari?”

“She’s got brains and beauty, everyone!” Salvoth teased. “Yes, my great-grandparents were ‘Tal-Vashoth’, those of our race who left the Qun, but everyone after them are just ‘Vashoth’.” She paused for a moment to move the ladle over the pan. Tilting it, a drop of batter spilled over the edge and hit the pan with a  _ sizzle _ . Smiling, she poured out the rest of the batter, carefully spreading it in a thin, broad circle. “We grew up learning the good parts of the Qun- that there is value in knowing your place in the world, in being certain of your belonging and purpose.” Her smile widened, and Gwen had to admit it sounded nice. To never doubt. “And, most importantly, we learned how to cook the food. Take the ladle from me, will you?”

Gwen did as instructed, wincing as she neared the fire. “So this…  _ issalanom _ ?”

Salvoth nodded. “Hand me a spatula.”

It took her a moment to scan the wide collection of utensils hanging above the counter, but Gwen spotted a crude metal spatula and passed it to Salvoth. The heat made her grimace again, but she lingered to stare at the pan’s contents. The batter was beginning to form bubbles around the edges. “It’s like Orlesian  _ crêpes _ , yes?”

“No idea,” Salvoth said with a shrug. “Never been to Orlais, never had a  _ crêpe _ .”

Gwen shrugged as well as she stepped away from the fire. “Well, they’re cooked the same at least. Thin batter in a flat circle,” she recalled her summer in Orlais with her mother and  aunt, “though usually they aren’t cooked in a pan.”

“Neither is  _ issalanom _ .” Salvoth frowned at the pan. “It’s supposed to be cooked on a clay  _ mitad _ , but I’m making do.” The frown worsened as she slid the spatula underneath the bread, lifting it up to examine the underside before letting it fall back to the pan. “Hope it cooks evenly.”

Gwen gave a small nod before leaning against the wall again. She considered leaving Salvoth to her labor, but something else was pressing at her. “The Revered Mother Irena mentioned you had been travelling off the main road.”

“Well, the apostasy or the Vashoth-asy or the ‘having a dick’-asy would all be reason enough on their own,” she replied with a chuckle.

“Fair enough,” Gwen murmured. “I only bring it up because…” She swallowed and let out a sharp exhale. “If you were to stay off the main road the rest of the way to the Conclave, I could come with you, if you wanted me to.”

For a moment, Salvoth did not respond, too preoccupied with sliding the thin flatbread out of the skillet and onto a serving plate on the counter. “Well…” She dropped the hot pan down beside it before reaching for the discarded ladle. “Sure.”

Gwen frowned and straightened up. “That was not terribly convincing.”

“No? Damn, I’m usually such a good liar.” As she spoke, Salvoth poured another round of batter into the ladle. “It’s nothing personal- or, actually, it’s entirely personal.” With her back to Gwen, she could not see the other woman’s face, but she could see the left corner of her mouth, and she could watch it curl downwards. “It’s just, your apology, it reminded me of why you’re here in the first place, and it isn’t out of the goodness of your heart.” When Gwen didn’t respond, her every muscle frozen, her jaw glued shut, Salvoth moved back to the hearth and continued. “You felt guilty or prideful or both, but I needed help, so I ignored it up until now, but…”

Gwen dropped her gaze to the floor. The sweltering heat of the raging fire bore down on her neck so heavily she could tell herself the smoke was the reason her throat was clenched and her eyes were starting to water. She took a deep breath and screwed her eyes shut, swallowing the emotions threatening to strangle her.

A moment later, she sighed and opened her eyes again, just in time to watch Salvoth pour the batter into the pan once more. “Don’t think about this personally, then.” She crossed to the counter as Salvoth turned to stare at her, eyebrows wrinkled. “Think about it pragmatically. You are in a foreign land with a population negatively predisposed towards you for the reasons you so eloquently stated earlier.” She paused as she plucked the spatula up off of the counter, and she held both hands out to Salvoth. “You may need my help again.”

“Your pitch needs some work.” Nonetheless, Salvoth handed her the ladle and took the spatula. “I’ve managed to survive in Ferelden just fine on my own; don’t forget, when we met, you were the one provoking bandits you were in no position to fight.”

“You would not have had to fight those bandits at all if you had been travelling with me,” Gwen insisted. “I know Revered Mother Irena hired you because otherwise the templars of this town would have sent you to Lake Calenhad, or worse.” Salvoth frowned as she tore her gaze away. “ _ That _ is a problem a rich human noble can make go away.”

Salvoth paused. “There’s another issue.”

“Oh?”

“I don’t have a horse…” She trailed off as she glanced over her shoulder to give Gwen a slight, sly grin, “but I have a feeling that’s also a problem a rich human noble like yourself can make go away.”

The tension in Gwen’s chest released with a sigh, and she nodded. “Absolutely. Shall I go speak to the horsemaster about Aqun-Athlok Anan?”

“ _ Anaan _ ,” Salvoth corrected, her smile widening, “it means victory.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes.”


	11. In the Hollows of Their Footprints

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I say I was going to update every two weeks and then go silent for a month bc school started kicking my ass?? You're DAMN FUCKING RIGHT I did.  
> But I have a long weekend right now, so I'm gonna start this up again, beginning with a new chapter and a little bit of maintenance. Like changing the title! The plan for this series originally was that half way through, after Glendower is cured (I don't think that's a spoiler given that we find the cure in-game), it would switch to Glen's point of view. So starting with the golden girl, finishing with the black sheep.  
> ...Except I didn't actually know /what/ to do with Glen after he was cured. So I decided to keep Gwen's POV throughout, change each act's title to a Bible chapter (Genesis, Leviticus, Lamentations, Ecclesiasticus, and Revelation, because lets face it, the Chantry is basically the fantasy Catholic Church), and give the series a new overall name (The Way to a Woman's Mark bc I'm #Clever).  
> So yeah! That's everything on my end. Kudos & comments are always appreciated <3

“You know, you always make me feel like such a lucky woman, Lady Tr—”

“Scarlet! How much am I paying you to keep that name out of your mouth?”

The  _ madame _ , a full-figured redhead with wicked red lips and freckles all the way down her snowy white back, flashed Gwen a grin from the vanity. “Enough to make me feel like  _ such _ a lucky woman.” Gwen responded with a soft huff as she groped around in the discarded sheets on the floor for her shift. “After all, I’m the only person in Thedas who knows the Golden Girl of Ostwick’s dirty little secret.”

“You won’t be the only one for much longer if you don’t keep it down,” Gwen warned.

“Darling, you should know by now these rooms are soundproof,” Scarlet said with an eye-roll. She turned away from Gwen, back to the mirror where she was reapplying her makeup. “If you want everyone to hear those  _ delicious _ noises you make,” Gwen had to fight very hard to ignore the flushing of her cheeks and squirming of her stomach, trying to focus on wriggling into her clothes instead, “you should go to the brothel in the lower quarters.”

Gwen huffed again as she tied up the laces of her cream-colored kirtle. “Absolutely not.” She reached for her golden giornea next. “‘Evelyn Dumar’ is a loyal patron of The Gilded Lamb, exclusively.”

“And exclusively  _ my _ client.” Gwen watched Scarlet’s lips curl up in the mirror. “Unfortunately, dear, you aren’t my exclusive client. I do have another appointment to keep.”

“Such a shame,” Gwen said with a pout.

“Well,” Scarlet caught her eye in the mirror, and Scarlet’s reflection grinned, teeth bared, “for another ten sovereigns, I’ll tell the guardsman coming after you to come back later, and the two of us can keep shaming our mothers.”

_ Oh how she would be shamed…  _ “I’ll give you your tip, but I have an appointment to keep as well.” Gwen finished smoothing the skirt of her dress before reaching into the pocket. “You know, every time I visit, I’m half expecting to find you’ve used my money to buy your way out of this place.”

Scarlet let out a breezy laugh. “Oh, believe me, dear, I’ve put your coin towards plenty of nice things, but I like this work. I won’t be quitting any time soon.”

“Is that a common sentiment among prostitutes?” Gwen dug through her coin purse and pulled out a pair of sovereigns before pocketing the purse once more and crossing the room.

Scarlet shrugged. “I’m pretty sure other whores can’t pull knives on men who cross the line.” She grinned again, that way she smiled with all her teeth bared and her incisors glistening. Predatory. Gwen came up behind her, unable to suppress the shot of heat coursing through her body at the sight of that grin. With one hand, she touched Scarlet’s thick disheveled hair. Gently, she brushed the  _ madame’s  _ curls over her left shoulder, fingers grazing the soft skin hidden by her locks but now laid bare. Blood splatters in the snow.

With her other hand, she reached over Scarlet’s right shoulder and dropped the sovereigns onto the vanity.

“That isn’t your usual tip,” Scarlet murmured as Gwen leaned down, pressing her lips to the back of the other woman’s neck.

“Tell me the name of the guardsman coming after me,” Gwen replied. Her breath ghosted across Scarlet’s skin, and the other woman let out a soft shudder. “And I’ll give you the rest of your coin.”

“Playing politics again, are we?” Scarlet tutted softly. “Daven. His name is Daven.”

“Daven.” Prostitution wasn’t illegal in Ostwick. Not strictly, anyway. But it was condemned by the Chantry, and Grand Cleric Lydia in particular, and that was about as good as illegal here. She rarely had to use the information she had on the city’s guards; she prefered honey to blackmail. But Caerwyn preferred threatening violence against family members, so the secrets served as insurance that she had more control over them than her brother.

Gwen pulled away from Scarlet and grabbed three more sovereigns. “Have fun with Daven, dear.”

“He doesn’t pay as well as you do,” Scarlet sighed. She scraped the gold into the top drawer of the vanity, “and he has me call him ‘lord’. Lord Daven.”

“Typical male power fantasy,” Gwen said with a snort. She walked across the room to the door.

“And the very thing you pay me not to do.”

“Because unlike him, I actually have a title.” She grabbed her cloak off of the rack and threw it on. As she drew the hood up high, she said, “And I am not interested in losing it.”

With that, ‘Evelyn Dumar’ left the brothel. She kept her head down as she made her way through the city streets. The first few times she had visited the Gilded Lamb, it had been difficult not to run so as to put as much distance between the building and herself as quickly as possible. But running attracted attention, so she had taught herself to walk slowly. Intention helped too, so she usually picked a place in the city to head to afterwards. Today, just as she was heading out ‘for lunch’, her mother had asked her to pick up coffee beans from a favorite Antivan merchant who always docked at the edge of the city.

So today, she headed west, towards Ostwick’s outskirts.

She would not make it to the merchant, however. As soon as she had shed her hood, she heard someone shout, “Lady Trevelyan!”

Gwen felt her pulse skyrocket. For a moment, she considered shoving her hood back on. Instead, she swallowed thickly and turned towards the source of the noise. It was one of the city guards- one of the lieutenants, even.  _ Get a hold of yourself.  _ “Lieutenant.” She fought the urge to twist her hands in her skirt, instead wringing them behind her back. “How may I help you?”

“Lady Trevelyan,” the lieutenant repeated as he ran up to her. The look on his face did little to settle her nerves. The beads of sweat, the pallid countenance. Two others followed close behind him, a blond-haired templar and a woman in a uniform Gwen did not recognize at first.

_ Kirkwall,  _ she realized as she stared at the orange plate armor.  _ The Kirkwall city guard. _

“Easy, lieutenant,” she said. “Would you care to introduce me to your friends?”

“Lady Trevelyan,” he said yet again, “this is Brennan Evighan of the Kirkwall city guard, and Keran of the Templar Order stationed at Kirkwall’s Circle.” Both gave slight bows, in turn. “You have to take them to your father, immediately.”

Gwen frowned. “What is this about?”

“Please, Lady Trevelyan,” the templar spoke. He had a young, boyish face, and yet there was something in his bright blue eyes… “We shouldn’t speak about this here.”

“A bit of a delicate subject,” Brennan agreed with a wince.

Gwen blinked, and something heavy was bearing down on her stomach. Dread. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with that bright flash of light we saw from Kirkwall a few days ago,” both the Kirkwallers grimaced, “would it…?”

 

_ My Dear Brother Glendower, _

_ I am writing to you in confidence; you cannot repeat a word of what I have to say to anyone. I am sure the Chantry will want to keep this under wraps, and I do not want you to get in trouble for knowing the wrong information. But I also absolutely have to tell you. I have to tell someone. _

_ Kirkwall’s Circle fell. As best I understand it, the Knight Commander was attempting to annul the circle. In response, an apostate, a former companion of  both the Hero of Ferelden and the Champion of Kirkwall, blew up their Chantry, killing the Grand Cleric and dozens of others.The templars and mages then began to wage war against each other.They razed the city to the ground  until the templars had all but the Champion beaten. Just as they moved to arrest him, the Knight Commander ordered him killed. _

_ You would have a better understanding of what transpired afterwards. Some kind of magic must have been involved. The crazed Knight Commander attacked the Champion and his allies until she turned into a statue made of red stone. Do you know of any magic that can do that? _

_ In any case, I am headed to Kirkwall tomorrow to begin coordinating Ostwick’s help in the relief effort. Caerwyn has been put in charge of leading a team to hunt the countryside for the Champion and his closest friends, who fled the city with him. And Father is headed with Kirkwall’s messengers to Val Royeaux. They are going to seek an audience with the Divine Herself and explain what transpired. _

_ If I seem composed, it is only because I have drafted this letter half a dozen times.From what the messengers described of the event, it seems only the Knight-Commander is to blame. Her attempts to annul the circle without due cause provoked the apostate, provoked the battle. Yet Grand Cleric Lydia and Knight Commander Caitlyn have been adamant that the blame lies with the apostate. That the Maker granted the Knight Commander authority over mages which we must not question, for if we question her, then we question Caitlyn’s power, and then the whole system. The power of the Chantry itself. _

_ I would not commit such blasphemy, at least not publicly. I know if only you were here, you would help me find His Light again. You were always the more pious of the two of us, after all. _

_ But you aren’t  here, so I must keep my sinful thoughts to myself and pray for your quick response. I hope things at the White Spire are better than they are here. _

_ Your faithful sister, _

_ Gwendolyn _

 

_ My darling sister Gwendolyn, _

_ I will not be in the White Spire for much longer. After two years, I am being sent back to the Ostwick Circle, along with a half dozen templars. The Lord Seeker has ordered that templars from every southern circle be sent north, so as to lend support to those stationed at Ostwick, Markham, the College, et cetera. I believe they fear the rebellion will spread once we are finally told the truth. _

_ We have not been told anything yet, however. There are rumors, of course. Mages with siblings in Kirkwall with unanswered letters. One of the astronomers speaks of a faint red light to the east. I have kept my lips sealed, and I have not engaged with those who do gossip. They will tell us what happened when the time is right. As you said so yourself, the Knight Commanders- nay, the Templar Order as a whole, holds authority over us, for our own safety and the safety of those around us. We must trust that everything they do, they do with our best interest in mind. As the Benediction says: _

__‘Blessed are they who stand before  
The corrupt and the wicked and do not falter.  
Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.’

_ As for your own struggles with faith, I encourage you to revisit the Commandments in your daily prayers. You do still pray daily, yes? Not just the passage about Maleficar, but the next piece as well _

__‘All men are the Work of our Maker's Hands,  
From the lowest slaves  
To the highest kings.  
Those who bring harm  
Without provocation to the least of His children  
Are hated and accursed by the Maker.‘

_ They should be hated and accursed by us as well. _

_ Your loyal brother, _

_ Glendower _

_ P.S. I know you well enough to think you might use that last quotation against the Knight Commander of Kirkwall. Remember: we, corrupt and wicked in our magic, are our own provocation. _

 

“Your brother sounds absolutely fucking crazy.”

Gwen blinked, drawn out of her memories by the sound of Salvoth’s voice. “He was scared,” she said quietly. “He always was, ever since the magic appeared. Imagine,” as she spoke, she knelt down to the earth, twirling her seax in her right hand. She set a small cloth pouch onto the ground before reaching for a stalk of wild barley. “The one thing your family taught you to fear most, and one day you wake up to realize you  _ are _ that thing.” She grimaced. Visions of Glen’s earliest letters from the Circle swam before her eyes as she scraped the knife over the barley’s hull.

Salvoth snorted. “All I’m saying is, I’ve met plenty of people fucked over by life, and I’ve  _ never _ heard of someone with that kind of capacity for self-loathing. ‘We, corrupt and wicked’-- how masochistic do you have to  _ be _ ?”

Gwen let out a soft sigh while she watched the pearls of grain drop into the pouch, already half full with a combination of barley and wheat. “I can’t say, but piety was how he coped.” A flash of bright red and peeled skin. “What little good it did him.”

“What do you mean?”

Grimacing, Gwen finished dehulling the barley and stood. It had been three days since they left the village together, three days since they had begun making their way through the Coastlands, and three days of exchanging questions. Still, what had happened to her brother was something Gwen would put off talking about for as long as she could. So instead, she said, “It’s my turn to ask a question.”

Salvoth huffed as she stood as well, her own knife and pouch of grain in hand. They were scouring the woods for barley or wheat to ferment for more  _ issalanom.  _ Salvoth had had a second jar when they set out, as well as the leftover flatbread the Chantry sisters couldn’t quite bring themselves to use instead of spoons to eat the stew she had made. But now they needed fresh grains to supplement the dwindling teff seeds she had brought with her from Dairsmuid. “Oh, fine, but you are going to elaborate on that eventually.”

_ Eventually… but not yet.  _ Gwen considered her question for a moment while Salvoth began to wander deeper into the woods. “Alright,” she followed close behind, “same question. Where were you when you learned about Kirkwall?”

“Somewhere in south Antiva,” Salvoth answered after a moment. “One of the port cities- Salle, maybe. We had signed on to help guard some cargo a pirate had hauled in, make sure it got to the buyer safely.” She paused, a smile playing on her lips. “The pirate, she and I did some… chatting.”

“The same kind of chatting Scarlet and I did, I assume,” Gwen commented.

“The very same.” Salvoth shot her a grin. “But we also did some actual chatting,” she turned away, casting her gaze back to the ground, “and it turns out, she used to run with the Champion of Kirkwall.”

Gwen blinked at that. Something clicked, and her eyes widened. “You met Isabela? From the Tale of the Champion?”

“Met and more.” Salvoth paused for a moment as she knelt down. More wild grain. Gwen looked around, knowing there would be more growing nearby. “She was the one who told me, while we actually were chatting.” Gwen spotted a few stalks of wheat and bent down. “She told me she and Hawke had gone their separate ways a few years back, and I asked if she knew what he was up to these days.” Salvoth snickered. “She said last she heard, he and the rest of the gang had started a fucking revolution.”

Gwen gave a soft chuckle as well. “Was she glad she was out of Kirkwall by the time that happened?”

Salvoth clicked her tongue. “Oh no, that’s another question. It’s my turn first.” Gwen rolled her eyes and sighed, loud enough for Salvoth to snicker again. “You’re the one who’s been so stringent about the ‘one question’ rule; this is your fault.”

“I suppose it is,” Gwen said with another sigh, “and I suppose you want to know what I meant earlier, about Glen.”

“Yep.”

Gwen chewed the inside of her mouth as she slid her knife over the wheat and tried to wrangle her thoughts into order. It took a moment, but finally, she said, “He was made Tranquil. For all his piety, all his subservience and self-loathing, they made him Tranquil.” She was silent for a moment, waiting for some sort of response from Salvoth. But all she heard were the scraping of knives and the dull thuds of seeds and the faint whisper of the wind. 

So she continued. “The Knight-Commander, she came to my father to ask for permission to do it. And he gave it. He let them do…  _ that _ to his own son. How you could do  _ that _ to anyone, let alone someone you’re supposed to love…” Gwen trailed off.  _ Should I even be surprised? Father hasn’t loved him since we first realized he’s a mage. _ A shudder raced down her spine at the memory of her brother the last time they had seen each other. His stilted speech and still face and hollow, hollow eyes that watched her in her sleep.

“I’m sorry,” Salvoth offered, her voice low. A pause. “You know, the Valo-kas have smuggled mages out of Circles before- for a price.”

Gwen swallowed thickly, and some small comfort came to her as she ticked off the days in her head since she had last seen Glen. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Thank you, Salvoth. I do appreciate the offer- but I’ve already put my own escape plan in motion.” Her smile widened. “He and a friend arrived in Amaranthine a few days ago, and I’ve purchased mounts to take them to the Conclave.”

Gwen heard the rustle of fabric, and when she turned, she saw Salvoth had stood, the edges of her robe flapping around her feet. “I think we have enough grain for now; ready to head back?” Gwen nodded before sheathing her knife and standing as well. “I take it if you’re smuggling your brother out of the Ostwick Circle, you aren’t going back?”

Gwen tugged at the drawstrings of her purse, securing the grains inside. “No- but that’s for another reason.” They fell into step together as they began walking back the way they had came, to where they had tied the horses up. “And that was two questions.”

Salvoth sighed loudly. “I guess now you want to ask me two questions since that’s the only way to make it fair.”

With her brother still in her mind, there was only one question Gwen could think of. “I know you’re likely one of only a few mages who have little experience with the subject— still, how much do you know about Tranquility?” She had never had the opportunity to talk about the Rite with anyone before, let alone a mage, and she certainly hadn’t had a desire to either. But if she was going to cure Glen, she would need a place to start. “Like- can it be reversed?”

“I actually know a good bit about the Tranquil,” Salvoth admitted. “I’ve never had personal contact with them, but I like to study in my free time- and I want to find a cure.”

“Why?”

“What, do I need to have a family member die of the Taint to want to become a Grey Warden?” She had one eyebrow raised, staring down at Gwen with a look on her face like she had eaten something sour but was trying not to show it. “Not all of us fight shitty things just because people we care about are affected by them.”

Gwen’s gaze fell to the ground as her stomach curled.  _ She’s right…  _ but when she opened her mouth to say it, her pride clawed at her throat and twisted her tongue, and all that came out was a cough. “Still,” she coughed again, “you must have  _ a _ reason, even if it’s altruism.”

“I study because the magic of this world is wasted,” Salvoth said, her voice firm for someone Gwen knew laughed with such ease, “by people who are too afraid to unlock its full potential, like the mages in your Circles and the  _ saarebas _ of my people, or those who only want to use it for their own empowerment, like the magisters in the Imperium. But magic can  _ help people _ .” Something in her tone shifted, slipped higher in pitch. “Like the Mirror of Transformation! Anyone who’s read the Tale of the Champion knows it exists, and yet no one has done any sort of research into how it works. No one has tried to replicate it. Why? Do they not understand what that kind of magic, what being able to change yourself, to  _ fix yourself _ , could do for someone like—”

Salvoth’s voice suddenly snagged in her throat, strangled and choked her words. Gwen realized the other woman was trembling. Her large body was shaking under the weight of her passion, her desire to make the world better for people like her. While Gwen had no ‘people like her’ who were not already doing pretty damn well for themselves. Just pride and ambition and a lot of love for her brother.

They walked the rest of the way in silence. When they reached the horses, Gwen offered Salvoth the pouch of grain she had collected. She took it without a word and shoved it inside her robes, and she mounted Aqun-Athlok Anaan just as quietly.

“You know,” Gwen murmured as she hoisted herself into Bright Dawn’s saddle, “I could get you into Kirkwall, to study the Mirror of Transformation.” She paused and spared a glance to her right. Salvoth watched her out of the corner of her eye, but her face was blank, and Gwen took that as a sign that she could continue. “I don’t hold the same kind of clout I used to- another story for another time- but I helped with the relief effort. I can use that to get you into to the city, into the Black Emporium.”

Salvoth said nothing in response, instead squeezing her calves. Aqun-Athlok Anaan lumbered forward, and after a moment, Gwen coaxed Bright Dawn after them. Neither of them said anything for several minutes, but eventually, Salvoth said, “It could take years of study to make any sort of progress.” She paused; Gwen rode up beside her and saw her cheeks were darkening. “And I don’t imagine Kirkwall’s handing out jobs to Qunari apostates.”

Gwen almost suggested she could go with her, sponsor her as nobles often did for scholars at the University of Orlais. But the light weight of her left saddlebag was a reminder that, at the moment, she also could not support herself in Kirkwall. Indeed, without employment or the limitless coffers of the Trevelyan household, she could not support herself  _ anywhere _ in Thedas. And of course the reason why she did not have access to those coffers remained. Caerwyn’s threat against Glendower’s life. Her promise to remain in Ferelden after the Conclave.

“No, I suppose you’re right.” Gwen sighed. “But it’s nice to fantasize, isn’t it?” To imagine a world where she was still only bound by her ambition.

“Imagining a world where I have the means to actually do whatever the fuck I want to with my life?” Salvoth sighed as well. “Can’t think of anything nicer- except actually living in it.” She paused, twisting in her saddle to give Gwen a look of envy. “And you had that. What the hell happened to make you decide to leave it behind?”

“I’ll tell you in a minute,” Gwen promised, “but I would like to hear what you’ve learned about the Rite of Tranquility first.”

“That was your question, wasn’t it?” Salvoth gave a small, strained laugh. “So, mages draw their power from the Fade; the Rite severs the connection between a mage and the Fade, taking away their ability to do magic at the expense of their dreams, emotions, desires, et cetera. Theoretically, all it would take to reverse the Rite would be to re-establish that connection, but as for how to do that…” Salvoth shook her head and sighed. “I’ve got no fucking clue, and I’m not sure anyone else does either, and if they do, I bet the Templar Order is spending every last coin it has to keep them quiet about it. They needed the Rite before the war broke out, and they’ll sure as hell need it if they ever end up in charge again.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Gwen said, “that the answer lies with the templars and not the mages.”

“There wouldn’t be a damn Tranquil in all of Thedas if we had the answer.”

_ And soon there won’t be.  _ Gwen was now one step closer to finding the cure, if it existed, and if it did not, she would travel to the edges of the known world to find it. If it lay in the hands of the Templar Order or their handlers the Seekers of Truth, she would hunt down every last one of them herself until one used their dying breath to whisper the cure to her.

And then she would cure them. First Glen, and then all the others she could find, until the world was rid of those hollow, hollow eyes.


	12. In Their Blood

On the eighth day, Gwen woke up in the early dawn feeling better than she had in a week, if only because last night had been the first time she had bathed since she had left Vigil’s Keep. For the first time in several days, she felt _clean._ All the dirt and grime scrubbed away, the skin under her shift returned to something closer to softness, to purity.

She lingered on top of her bed roll for several minutes. Since Amaranthine, she had been using the second bed roll, the one intended for Glendower, as a pillow. She rested her head against it now as she rolled onto her side to watch the faint dappled shadows of the forest play against the tent. Everything was so much quieter than it was in Ostwick, removed from the bustle of the city, the shouts of merchants bartering their wears, the crash of waves breaking against the city walls, and the crackling hearthes and buzzing politicians with their soft and honeyed tongues.

And yet it was louder too. The river they had bathed in the day before, an inlet off of the Waking Sea, babbled, and the wind whispered through the trees. Insects hummed. A songbird cawed in the distance.

When it had finished its melody, or when it had flown too far away for Gwen to hear it, she sat up. She made her way towards the flap of the tent. As she peeled it backwards, a cold wind stung her face. A light mist rolled off of the river, the condensation invading the tent in an instant, and seeping through Gwen’s thin underclothes.

“Maker, we must be close to Calenhad now,” she muttered while she crawled outside. She stood and stretched, her bare feet digging into the soft, wet river bank.

“Not Calenhad.” Gwen glanced to the right and saw Salvoth, already awake from her guard shift, fussing with a small iron mirror. Gwen had seen her with it every morning since they left the village. “In a day and or so, yeah, but we’re still too far north.” Gwen turned away and moved instead towards her backpack. It rested against a tree near Salvoth’s tent, which had been pitched a few feet to the right of Gwen’s. “Though we are closer to the Waking Sea than we have been yet.”

“Must be why I feel so at home,” Gwen replied. If she focused, she could get a whiff of that sea breeze she spent all of her childhood smelling.

“And why I have to purify the river water with magic.”

Gwen pawed through her backpack until she found the cape she had brought for Glen. It was heavy, made of deerskin dyed black and lined with wolves’ fur, and it provided the perfect safe haven from the early morning fog. “You’ve purified all the water we’ve encountered.”

“Well, it’s all the more reason to, anyway,” Salvoth replied. “Every Rivaini child learns early— drinking salt water will kill you.”

“My mother told us the same thing.” Gwen made her way back towards Salvoth, who sat at the edge of the river, legs crossed. Gwen sat down beside her and let her feet dangle in the water. “Though I don’t think I ever had the inclination to drink it to begin with.”

“Yes, but you’ve always had access to water— and clean drinking water at that.” As Salvoth spoke, she studied herself in the mirror and fiddled with a thin wooden stick connected to a cloth pouch which sat in her lap. Gwen had watched her morning rituals a few times now. Sometimes, she began with wetting her hair and coating the curls with coconut oil. Most days, though, she started by lathering her cheeks and neck with cream. _Psilotum_ , she called it, a Tevinter invention for keeping the hairs she had plucked out from growing back again.

And then came the makeup. Gwen had never seen makeup in the colors Salvoth had; she could only assume magic was involved in their dyeing.

“Can we start up the questions again?” Gwen asked.

“You haven’t even been up for an hour yet,” Salvoth commented. “What could you possibly want to ask about?”

“Your makeup,” Gwen answered as she turned to the river. If her seax were not in the tent, she might have been inclined to pass the time catching breakfast. Instead, she watched the fish swim past her, scales glinting. “Or, rather, why you’re still wearing it even as we’re trekking through the woods, miles away from any civilization of any kind.”

Salvoth shrugged. “You never know when you might need to convince someone that you are, in fact, a woman.”

Gwen grimaced at that, a shame curling in her gut while she toed at the loose gravelly sand at the bottom of the river. “I’m the only one here, and you don’t need to convince me.”

She dared a glance to the side to see Salvoth shifting, her grip tightening around the pouch of kohl until her knuckles blanched. After a moment, she let out a deep, deliberate sigh. Her grip on the makeup slackened, and as she spoke, she finished applying the lavender eyeshadow. “Someone who does need convincing might find us.”

“Hmm.” Gwen stood up, wiping off her sandy feet on the grass. She knew well what it was like for femininity to be a requirement, an obligation to remain in good standing among particular social circles. _But that is the difference_ , she supposed, _Salvoth has to do it within all social circles._ “Shall I handle getting breakfast?”

Salvoth stood as well, storing her makeup within her long navy robes, which seemed to have an endless number of pockets for potions, herbs, creams, and the like. “I’ll start the fire.”

Gwen nodded before she turned and walked back towards her tent. As she ducked inside, the heavy cloak slipped from her grip. Shivering, she yanked it back around her shoulders, fumbling to fasten the clasp across her chest. With the cloak secured, she knelt down beside her armor, which lay across from her bedroll. She slid the seax out of its sheathe, held its weight in her palm, and for a moment, she could hear screams.

The spray of warm blood.

The wet _squish_ as she pulled the knife out of…

She grimaced, shook her head, and scrambled out of the tent as quickly as she could. No need to think about that today. She looked around, desperate for the distraction of continuing her conversation with Salvoth. She caught sight of the other woman standing only a few feet away and snapping branches off of trees close to the edge of the forest.

“Would you still wear it,” Gwen called out, “if you didn’t have to?”

Salvoth glanced up. Though Gwen could not hear it, she could see her chuckling. “Lady Trevelyan, that’s two questions.”

Gwen blinked, for a moment worried she had slipped up on the very rules which she had harped on for so long. “No,” a smile tugged at her lips. “No it isn’t. I never explicitly asked you about your makeup habits.”

Even with the distance between them, she saw Salvoth roll her eyes. “Implicit questions still count.”

Gwen’s grin widened. “That was never _explicitly_ stated.”

Now it was Salvoth’s turn to blink before she smiled as well. She began to walk back towards Gwen with a bundle of tinder under her arm, chuckling with every step. “Don’t _implicit_ rules still count, even if implicit questions don’t?”

Gwen responded with a soft tutt. “And now you’re trying to ask me a question before you’ve answered mine.”

Salvoth stopped just inches away from Gwen and, as Gwen smiled sweetly up at her, dropped the branches on top of her bare feet. She yelped, scrambling backwards and yanking her feet out from under the pile. And all the while, Salvoth snickered at her. “Aren’t you supposed to be getting us breakfast, not being a smartass?”

“That’s another question,” Gwen huffed.

Salvoth rolled her eyes, though she was still smiling. “You are a pain in the ass.”

Despite the cool air, Gwen’s cheeks were warm. Maybe it was the way Salvoth was looking at her, showing off the gaps in her teeth with those pretty pink eyes glinting in the light of the rising sun. Or maybe it was how close they were. Even after she had pedaled backwards, the other woman was less than an arm’s length way. If Gwen reached out, she’d be able to run her fingers across her robes. She might even be able to touch her face, the deep grey skin stretched taut across her high cheekbones.

Caught between wanting to pull away and move closer, Gwen stood still, but, unwilling to give up any ground, she broadened her smile and fluttered her eyelashes. “Just answer my question, dear, and I’ll stop being a pain.”

Salvoth sighed dramatically. “Fine. I probably would.” Her sun-like smile softened, and she glanced downwards. “I do enjoy it— wearing bright colors, dressing up, making myself pretty in a way men find gaudy and unattractive.”

Gwen frowned at that. “Men don’t know anything about attractiveness, do they?”

Salvoth snickered. “No, they don’t.”

“...but that’s probably for the best,” Gwen added, because when she thought about the possibility of a man finding her attractive, her skin started to crawl.

“Oh, absolutely.” Salvoth stepped away, freeing Gwen from the force rooting her to the ground. And yet still she didn’t move, and instead she watched Salvoth head back towards the forest. “That’s the beauty of makeup. They don’t see me as a man or a woman they can fuck— then again, I’m pretty sure most human men don’t daydream about fucking a Qunari anyway.”

Something stirred in Gwen’s stomach. “And what about human women?”

Salvoth shrugged. “Can’t say I’ve met many human women who like other women.”

Gwen’s gaze dropped from Salvoth’s back to the ground, where she poked at the branches with her toes. “That’s a shame,” she murmured.

Somehow, Salvoth heard her. “Oh, I don’t think so. I’m not interested in a damsel in distress.” Gwen glanced up at that, wondering if that was how Salvoth saw her. But the other woman was snickering again. “No swooning, either.”

And Gwen started to chuckle too. “Swooning is bad?”

“Just annoying,” Salvoth said. “You aren’t a swooner, are you?”

“Only when I’m a damsel in distress,” Gwen called back, “which is to say n—”

“Wait!” Salvoth suddenly hissed, her voice dropping. “Be quiet.”

Gwen blinked, and her first instinct was to open her mouth and snap in protest. But the shift in Salvoth’s tone made her hesitate, made her pause as Salvoth motioned for her to come closer.  She crept towards her, and as the forest shifted with her gaze, she saw it. Obscured by the diagonal lines the sun cut across the trees, a brown bear peered out of the shadows. Gwen’s breath caught in her throat, her heart skipping several beats as she watched it lumber forward. Its face shifted into the light to reveal its glinting black eyes and hunched shoulders, coated in rippling, shaggy brown fur. If she squinted, she swore she could pick out flecks of blood in its pelt.

“Oh Maker…”

“Yeah,” Salvoth whispered. “See what it’s staring at?”

Gwen followed its beady gaze to where their horses had been tied up. “Shit.”

“ _Yeah_.” Salvoth shook her head. “I thought bears ate berries and fish and shit, but if that thing attacks the horses, we’re screwed.”

Gwen swallowed thickly, fumbling with the seax to provide her some small bit of security. “Could you scare it off or something? With magic? Like you did with the blackbirds?”

“Maybe…” Salvoth drew her own knife. She tossed it from hand to hand a few times before flipping it up in the air. As it fell, spinning, she caught it with the blade pointing towards her. Light spat from the amethyst in the outwards-facing hilt. It snaked through the trees, slipped through the shadows, and struck the bear’s cheek.

But it did little more than singe its fur. _And_ it made it swing its massive head towards them, its teeth bared.

“That didn’t work,” Gwen stated, breathless as the bear lumbered forward.

“Well, it doesn’t always work,” Salvoth hissed. “You don’t stab someone through the abdomen every time you fight, right? It’s a hit-or-miss thing.”

“Well, that was a miss.” Gwen readjusted her grip on the seax and took a step back. Salvoth fell back as well, though the bear kept moving towards them. Its movements were heavy and slow, but it began to pick up speed. “What now? Can’t you throw fire at it or something?”

Salovth gulped, and Gwen watched her glance towards the tents. “Not without my staff.”

They shuffled backwards another step. “It can only follow one of us.” Gwen glanced sideways as well. “I’m closer to the tents. I could grab your staff, and my sword.”

“While I, what, run in the other direction and hope it follows me?”

Gwen’s heart slammed against her chest, and as the bear broke into a run, she shoved Salvoth to the left, away from the tents. “Yes!”

Gwen sprinted to the right towards her tent. The closer tent. Her fingers felt fat and clumsy scraping at the edges of the flap as she tried to keep her seax in hand. When the canvas slipped through her fingers a second time, she ripped it open to a searing _spliiit_. But it might as well have been a whisper compared to the heavy thuds she heard as she dove inside. Sliding to her knees, she watched a shadow stretch out across the floor. Tall as a tree, with two branches raised above its head and ready to crash down.

Gwen threw herself onto her back and took a deep breath.

The tent came down on top of her, bringing the smell of iron and musk, and a low guttural growl Gwen could feel through the tarp pressing against her face. As panic crawled up her throat and her pulse spiked, she told herself the bear would move soon.

But her lungs began to strain to the tune of shredding fabric. A sharp talon grazed across her leg, and she had to bite her cheek, clutch her knife so hard her hand ached, to keep from wasting her breath crying out. Instead, she tilted the seax and jabbed upwards as hard as she could.

The bear reeled to the side, and Gwen gasped as the weight lifted from her face and chest. She sat up, crawling out through the hole she had made in the tent. Or what was left of the tent, anyway. Much of it laid in tatters, alongside the strips of leather the beast had pried out of her armor. She stared at the wreckage while she breathed raggedly, heavily, gulping as much air back into her lungs as she could.

A deep _snarl_ pulled her back to the present, pushed away all those despairing thoughts about what she’d do without her tent and armor. She whipped to the left to see the bear glowering at her, blood dripping from its gut. The same hot blood that now coated her bare hand.

It ran forward again. Gwen stumbled to her feet, a sob rising to her lips as she put weight on her injured leg. She feinted to the left before falling to the right. The bear charged past her, and as Gwen hit the ground, she caught sight of glinting metal underneath a shred of canvas. A dull ache shot through the right side of her body, but she ground her teeth together, reached for the hilt of her sword with her left hand, and yanked it towards her. Rolling up onto her knees, she switched her seax into her other hand, wrapping her right hand around the sword.

Just as her fingers closed around the hilt, she heard those thunderous thuds again. She swung around as the bear brought a paw down on her. By some miracle of the Maker, when she turned, the tip of her longsword tore across the pad of its outstretched paw. Growling, it curled its paw to its chest. Gwen scrambled backwards, kicking her bare feet against the ground until she could stand up, finally armed— but before she could steady herself, the bear lunged forward.

It stopped mid-snap, its face twisting and dropping. Gwen saw a patch of frost growing between its shoulder blades, and she looked up to see Salvoth standing by her tent, twirling her staff.

“Thought you might need some help!” she called out.

Gwen laughed uneasily, unable to mimic Salvoth’s brightness or optimism. Maybe it was the blood running down her calf. Or that the ice was thawing and the bear was tensing for another strike. She adjusted her grip on her weapons and darted forward. It twisted to bite at her, but she kept close to its flank. Before it could turn around or move, she plunged her sword into its hindquarters.

And then it did move.

And Gwen’s sword, twisted in sinew and muscle, went with it.

Gwen’s stomach plummeted as she watched the snarling beast round on her. She put her seax in her right hand, clutching it so hard her knuckles blanched, and she took a step back. And another. And—

For a single, foolish moment as those claws came at her, she thought her armor would catch most of the blow. And most every time she had fought in her life, she had been wearing armor that likely could. But in the next moment, in the corner of her eye, she caught sight of her ruined leather chestplate on the ground.

And in the next moment, there was pain. Searing hot, like a flame blazing its way across her breasts, the hurt so loud she almost couldn’t hear the sound of her own flesh tearing, rending.

She stumbled backwards, her face stretched open in a silent scream she couldn’t voice because the shock had stolen her breath. She clutched at her chest with her left hand, as if that might do something to ease the pain. Within a minute, her palm was slick and sticky, and when she pulled it away again, all she could see was the blood dripping from it. _Her_ blood…

She found her voice, and she screamed.

Under her screams, though, she heard someone yelling. The sound was hazy, out of focus, but as Gwen turned her head towards the noise, desperate for some sort of distraction, she began to make out the words.

“--to me! Yeah, ignore her! I’m making way more noise and I am _definitely_ the bigger threat, you mangy overgrown _qalaba_ !” The bear’s back was to Gwen now, its attention turned towards Salvoth as she hollered and gestured and sent electricity shooting through its fur. “Yeah, come fight me, you fucking piece of _vashedan_!”

The bear seemed all too happy to comply. It charged towards her, and were her lungs not heaving, her throat not ravaged, Gwen would have cried out as it heaved its paw towards her friend.

Except the oddest thing happened. One moment, Salvoth was about to receive the same injuries Gwen was so desperately trying to ignore. The next, she was standing by the bear’s right shoulder with her knife ready. She brought it down into its flank, and fire leapt from the amethyst in the hilt, searing a black line down the beast’s pelt. For its part, the bear howled and swung its head around with its fangs bared. But before it could clench its jaw around her, she vanished and reappeared behind the other shoulder.

It was almost graceful, watching her fight, and Gwen understood how she was able to dispatch those bandits with such ease. Blinking in and out of existence, dancing out of the bear’s reach, swiping along its flank with artful, magic-touched slices and disappearing before it could retaliate. It took her a minute, but Gwen soon figured out the steps, the puff of green smoke from the top of her staff which signaled the shift, the second puff that appeared just before she did.

It was a nice distraction. Something pretty to stare at while Gwen’s head became light and her hand became heavier with blood.

After a minute, Salvoth appeared right in from of the bear’s face. She was holding her knife backwards, and she struck it in the forehead with the hilt. Something black and viscous leaked from the gem and crawled into the beast’s eyes. It fell to the ground, yowling and cowering as it covered its face with its paws.

In the next moment, Gwen heard a _pop_ , and Salvoth appeared beside her. The other woman was breathing almost heavily as she was, and when Gwen glanced to the side, she realized her face was lined with sweat.

“You…” Gwen slurred. “You look tired.”

“Yeah, well,” Salvoth threw her arm over Gwen’s shoulders, her knife resting gently against her arm. “Fade Stepping is exhausting- and you don’t look too great yourself.”

Gwen responded with a groan as the pain in her chest flared.

Salvoth sighed. “We need a plan; I’m never going to kill this thing with just my knife.”

“Could you use my—” Gwen gasped, “my sword?”

“No.” Salvoth paused, re-adjusting her grip on the knife. “But soon you’ll be able to.” As she spoke, blue light poured out of the amethyst. It felt cool as it raced across Gwen’s chest, wormed its way through her shift, and sank into the depths of her wounds. With it, the pain dulled.

But it didn’t go away, and Gwen whimpered. “It still hurts.”

“There’s only so much I can do in battle,” Salvoth murmured, her tone soft and reassuring as she brushed her knuckles across Gwen’s arm. “Now stay back; be ready for when I’ve got your sword.”

 _Pop_. The bear removed its paws and shook its great head as Salvoth appeared beside it. She reached for the hilt of it sword, but the beast swung towards her. She flourished her staff. A green puff of smoke appeared on its other side, but for several moments, Salvoth did not move. Gwen’s breath caught in her throat as the bear raised its paw…

And came down on nothing. Salvoth winked back into existence beside it, her chest heaving. More green smoke puffed beside the sword hilt. But Salvoth stood where she was for even longer, long enough for the bear to whirl around to snap at her.

It didn’t bite her, for she was behind it, her knife stored in her belt as she yanked Gwen’s longsword out of its hindquarters. The bear snarled at that, scrambling around to throw spittle in her face. Gwen glanced to her side where a small ball of green smoke shifted and curled at eye-level. It flashed white, and from the light, her sword fell and clattered to the ground. Without Salvoth.

Gwen heard a scream. She whirled around and saw the bear had buried its teeth in Salvoth’s left forearm. Though she was several feet taller than it, it shook her like a ragdoll and threw her past Gwen, into the river. Gwen followed the path of her friend’s body, but as she took a step towards her, she heard those accursed paws against the ground.

“Keep it away from Salvoth,” she hissed to herself. She bent down to pick her sword up off of the ground. The wounds across her chest ached when she tilted forward, but she dug her teeth into the inside of her cheek until it drove the other pain out of her mind. She straightened with her sword in her right hand, her seax in her left, and she turned to face the beast. It was moving slower than it was when Gwen had last fought it, a dozen tiny cuts running across its pelt beside lines where fire had struck through its hair.

Gwen sprinted towards it. It swiped at her with its right paw, which she caught against the blunt side of her sword. Her muscles spasmed under its weight, heavier than any sword Gwen had ever parried. But it couldn’t use its other arm— Gwen could. She sliced alongside its right leg with her seax, and just as her arm was about to give out, it recoiled.

Its weight gone, Gwen stumbled forward, and her right hand dropped like a loadstone in water. The moments it took her to recover were all the bear needed too, and it lunged towards her, jaw snapping. She pedalled backwards as quickly as she could— but not fast enough to escape the bear’s mouth. It caught ahold of her right shoulder. She groaned, and though her muscles screamed in protest, she swung her right shoulder up, bringing her arm and sword with it.

A bloody slit appeared along the beast’s cheek. It released her shoulder, and Gwen nearly took a moment to sigh in relief. But the searing pain across the top of her body said she needed to end this now. She lowered her right arm and dove forward, with the point of her sword aimed at the bear’s throat.

It battered her arm down as if it were a fly. Its claws dug into her skin just below her shoulder, and they raked all the way down to her wrist. Gwen sobbed, and it took every ounce of willpower she had to keep a grip on her sword as tremors wracked her muscles.

But it wasn’t enough. Scooting backwards, she felt her fingers uncurling, her hand spasming. She dropped her knife and brandished the sword in her left hand, while her right arm hung limp at her side. The next time the bear swiped at her, she ducked underneath it and leaned forward, catching its chest with the edge of her blade. A blow, but a glancing one. That was the difference, wasn’t it? That their blows were slices, surface-level and soft. And the bear’s blows were lethal.

“Gwen!”

She spared a moment to glance over her shoulder. She saw Salvoth standing waist-deep in the river, tilted to her left, leaning against her staff for support. But standing nonetheless.

“Get it into the river!” Salvoth hollered. “I think I know how to kill this thing!”

Turning tail and running wasn’t something Gwen liked doing; she often made a point of refusing to surrender. But a bear wasn’t a being you could surrender to, so she pivoted and sprinted towards the river, grateful that her injuries were mostly above the waist. She plunged into the water, soaking through her shift and the heavy, heavy cloak. Her movements slowed, but, unable to swim, she trudged towards Salvoth.

And as she moved, she heard thunderous splashes, getting louder and louder with every moment. With a puff of smoke, Salvoth was by her side, arms thrown above her head. The water around them surged backwards, and when Gwen turned, she saw the river coalescing around the bear’s head.

“Nice trick,” Gwen breathed, hissing as the pain in her arm sharpened. With a moment to rest, she peeled back the tatters of her shift to stare at the gouges in her skin. They were deeper than she had thought, leaking more blood than she had thought.

Salvoth didn’t respond. Gwen turned around to see her friend with her eyes screwed shut, a tremor in her back shaking her hands as she held them in the air, clasped around her staff.

“Need concentration.” Gwen bit back a cry. “Alright.”

She fell as quiet as she could while still gasping for breath, and she watched Salvoth, and then the bear. It thrashed about, clawing at the water covering its mouth, its face pulled into a rabid snarl.

And Gwen watched those lashing paws start to reach towards them. She took a step back.

Salvoth didn’t.

The bear caught her just under the rib cage and ripped downwards. Her eyes shot open and her face twisted to scream, but before it left her lips, the spell broke, and the river came rushing over her. She was swept under the current as the bear wrenched itself free, flinging its head backwards.

Gwen dove towards it with her left arm raised. The point of her sword sunk into its jugular, splitting through the hair and skin, and the muscle and sinew beneath. Blood sloshed from the cut where she twisted the blade to carve out a ragged hole. The bear coughed up guttural noises, and more blood began to color its teeth. It scrambled away from her, cowering as it gasped its last breaths. Its body made a heavy _splash_ in the water as it fell.

“Oh, _Maker_.”

Gwen staggered backwards, her left arm falling down by her side, her hand unclasping, the sword falling into the river. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Everything hurt. Her blood pounded against her skull.

Some small, rational voice curled in her ear. _Find Salvoth. Keep her alive or else you won’t stay alive yourself._

It sounded like Glendower.

She turned in a slow circle to see Salvoth washed up on the bank of the river. She had propped herself up on her left arm, coughing up water, lungs heaving. And her right hand rested clutched at her stomach, clutched at the blood dripping from it. Gwen struggled against the river to stagger towards her. A swift current threw her to her knees, so she dragged herself to shore. Crawling up beside Salvoth with her good hand, she collapsed onto the sand.

“You’re not very good at this.”

She lifted her head to glance at Salvoth, who had a slight smile on her lips. “What?”

“Fighting,” Salvoth said with a gasp of pain.

“This isn’t the kind of fighting I usually do,” Gwen rapsed. “I was trained to fight in tourneys. Duels. Fair fights. Not bears. Who the fuck fights bears?”

“We just did.”

“...yeah.”


	13. Lift Me From a World of Pain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have nothing to say for myself except that I'm tired and I hate school.

The next two days passed in a haze. Gwen had vague memories of elfroot and spindleweed and bandages made from strips of their bloodied clothes, but little else had stuck. Except, of course, for one very specific memory of Salvoth slathering poultice across a bandage before holding it up to wrap around Gwen’s chest.

_ “Can’t I do it myself?” _

_ “I don’t want you doing it incorrectly.” _

And then Salvoth’s fingers, soft, her hands were  _ so soft _ , winding the bandage around her chest. The feather light touches. The brush against the sensitive skin under her right breast. Gwen’s breath caught in her throat. The darkening of Salvoth’s cheeks when she at last pulled away, and the lurching in her stomach when she found herself yearning to feel those soft touches again.

It didn’t help that, with Gwen’s tent destroyed, she slept with Salvoth. Next to her, anyway. With about a foot between them. But that didn’t feel like much when the residual pain kept Gwen tossing and turning at night.

And in the day, they had little to do but wait for their wounds to heal and talk. Whatever deep dark secrets Gwen might have spilled during their questions game, she didn’t remember anything she had said. She didn’t remember what Salvoth had said either— and when she tried to conjure up the memories, all she could recall was that laugh. Her laugh.

It wasn’t easy getting on the road again. Were it not for the fact that her brother was waiting at the end of the journey, Gwen would have delayed taking off even longer. Because while every step took her closer to Glendower, it also took her closer to the day when she and Salvoth would likely never see each other again. So as they began to follow the river bank down south, she entertained herself with fantasies where she could have them both.

She began with the Kirkwall one. The one where she, Glendower, and Salvoth moved into a Hightown mansion, maybe even what was once the Hawke Estate. Obtaining money by some means she couldn’t care to imagine, she sponsored Salvoth’s studies of the Mirror of Transformation. She would live under the pseudonym ‘Dumar’, and she would be a patron for others as well— artists, scientists, arcanists. Her patronage would bring vitality back to Kirkwall, and the people would name her viscountess of the city. And what threat could Caerwyn possibly pose to her then?

She would consolidate power, use it to let apostates like Salvoth roam the streets freely and punish anyone who would try to harm them. And if Caerwyn tried to harm her or Glen, she would march on Ostwick. She had dirt on half her home’s guards, and she knew the ins and outs of the city, the trade routes it depended on. It would be all too easy… 

_ “Two cities is a nice start on an empire.” _

_ Gwen strode through the halls of her ancestral home, denied to her for over a decade now because of her brother’s foolish insolence. Ironic that it was that same insolence which gave her the excuse to come back. _

_ “Only if you do right by the people in that empire.” _

_ Gwen turned. The long train of her deep emerald dress trailed on the ground behind her, and she saw Salvoth moving towards her, past the tall marble columns which held up the main hall. The other woman was dressed in white, with bright multi-colored threads splitting down the center of the dress. Gwen recognized it as the one she had had imported from Rivain for special occasions. _

_ And today was a  _ very  _ special occasion. _

_ “Of course.” Gwen met her halfway, wrapping her arms around her. “I’ve already made plans to meet with the mayor of the Ostwick Alienage later today to discuss the elves’ compensation for assisting Kirkwall.” A smile played on her lips. “I may even name her High Lord of Ostwick, to rule the city in my stead.” _

_ Salvoth frowned. “And you aren’t worried about how the nobles will respond?” _

_ “Oh, I’m counting on it. I’d love to make an example of someone.” She paused as the large oak doors to the hall swung open. _

_ A soft-faced guard ducked his head into the room. “Viscountess Trevelyan, are you ready?” _

_ “Bring him in in a minute,” Gwen replied. The door shut once more, and she planted a quick kiss on Salvoth’s cheek before pulling away. Though she kept one hand on Salvoth’s, she turned to face the front of the room, where two thrones sat against the wall on a stage. The same thrones Gwen had played beside as a kid. Where she would sit as a young woman when the chambers were empty and her parents had gone to bed, wondering what it would be like to rule. _

_ She strode towards them. Though anxiety curled in her stomach with each step, the weight in her right hand was a comfort. A reminder that she was not alone in facing what was to come. _

_ Gwen took the right throne, Salvoth the left. _

_ When the doors opened once more, the lad had returned with a small procession in tow. First was Glendower. Cured of the Tranquility some years ago, he now marched through his family estate with his chest out, a blaze of defiance in the face of something which had been taken away from him even longer ago than it had been for Gwen. _

_ Their parents filed behind him, flanked on either side by guards. Last, but certainly not least, was Caerwyn. And he was brought into the hall in chains. _

_ A thrill of pleasure shot through Gwen as she watched her men drag him up and dump him on the floor in front of her. The Bann of Ostwick’s few nights in the dungeon had not treated him well, if the dirt clinging to his cheeks and the tears in his purple doublet were any indication. _

_ “Caerwyn Rhydderch Aeron Trevelyan,” Glen said from his post beside Gwen’s throne, “you have been brought here today on charges of conspiring to kill the Viscountess of Kirk—” _

_ “You bitch,” Caer interrupted, his face twisted into a monstrous snarl as he glared at Gwen. “I knew this was what you were after all along. You never wanted to be Bann of Ostwick; you wanted Kirkwall.” In a surprising show of strength, he threw off the guards holding him down and charged towards her. “That’s why you ruined my marriage. That’s why you came back after I told you to fuck off to Ferelden!” _

_ Gwen glanced at Salvoth. Despite the situation, she smiled. “I came back to help a friend.” _

_ “What, this ox-bitch beside you?!” _

_ Gwen was glad Caerwyn decided to get so close. It meant she could stand. It meant she could lunge towards him and slap him across the cheek, hard enough to send him stumbling backwards. As the red handprint blossomed across his face, she felt that same pleasure and satisfaction once more. _

_ “ _ That  _ is one of the Viscountesses of Kirkwall, and you will not speak to her that way.” _

Gwen blinked, suddenly pulled out of her fantasy at that word. Viscountess. She echoed it, murmured it softly, felt its shape against her mouth. The thought, its implications, made her cheeks darken, and she squirmed in her saddle. She stole a quick glance sideways, but Salvoth had her eyes forward. Gwen let out a sigh and turned away.  _ You’ve known this woman for a little over a week. Who the hell thinks about marrying someone they’ve known for a week? _

And besides, Salvoth likely would not blow off a remark on empire building quite so easily.

So Gwen turned to another fantasy, this one of the Valo-Kas. Some days before, Salvoth had told her about them, her colorful mercenary band of unusual characters. Their leader, Shokrakar, 7 feet tall, one-armed, and strong enough to wield a trident despite it. Katoh, the cold Vashoth blood mage with a soft spot only for Salvoth, their pupil. Taarlok, half-human and literate, the face of the Valo-Kas to the human world. Ashaad. Salvoth’s former lover.

According to Salvoth, they had never had a human in their ranks— or any non-Qunari, for that matter. Apparently none had ever expressed interest.

Gwen could be the first. It wouldn’t be the life she was used to. It would take time to acclimate. But she could learn to enjoy it, the same way she had learned to enjoy the days since they had left the village. There was the question of Glendower, of course. In his Tranquil state, he had little to offer the band of mercenaries, except as dead weight.

_ Maybe they wouldn’t care. _

_ It’s a mercenary band, not a charity. They can’t afford to take anyone who isn’t useful. _

_ I could go without him. _

It was an unsettling thought, to be parted from her brother after the lengths she had gone through to be reunited with him. Had she not sacrificed her entire life back in Ostwick to keep him in her care?

A soft melody drifted through the air. Gwen glanced to the side and realized Salvoth was humming quietly. Something quick and light. And the sunlight reflecting off the river behind her enveloped her like a halo. She had a slight smile on her lips, eyes half-closed. At peace.

As if she felt Gwen’s gaze, she turned. Blinking. Smile widening. “What’re you looking at?”

Gwen dropped her head. “Nothing. I just…” Anything that came out of her mouth now would sound like a lie, right? “The light on the water is pretty.”

She glanced up to see Salvoth looking at the river. “I guess. It’s a little hard to look at the river without thinking about how I almost drowned in it.” She wrinkled her nose, a shiver racing down her spine. “I know I’ve said this before, but I never want to see another bear again for as long as I live.”

Gwen didn’t know that. Evidence that Salvoth had retained more of the last few days than she had. “Neither do I.”

They fell back into silence, though Gwen was now acutely aware of the world around her. The lumbering beast between her thighs, an itch in her calf, the rustling of branches from the forest to her right, the quiet murmur of the river. Bright Dawn lifted her head with a snort, and Gwen closed her fists tight around the reins. Distracted riding was bad riding. She adjusted her seat in the saddle, sank her weight into her heels, redistributed her weight more evenly. And as she did so, out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of Salvoth staring at her.

It didn’t help with the distraction.

“You know,” Salvoth announced, breaking the uneasy silence, “I think I have an answer, to your question from last night.”

Gwen blinked a few times. “...which question?”

“About the Qun,” Salvoth said. “Don’t you remember?” Gwen shook her head, and Salvoth made a soft humming noise. “Okay, if this forgetfulness thing is still an issue tomorrow, you have to let me know.”

“If it’s still an issue, I’m going to forget to tell you,” Gwen pointed out.

Salvoth rolled her eyes. “You love your technicalities. Alright, I’ll remind you tomorrow, and if you’ve forgotten, we’ll know there’s an issue, but that’s not the point.” She collected the reins into one hand so she could throw the other up. “The point is, last night, you asked me what your position would be under the Qun, because in the Qun, you’re only referred to by your position. And I’ve thought of yours.” She paused, her entire face scrunching up. “Or I had, until you brought up the forgetfulness thing.” She took another moment to think, the wrinkles in her forehead deepening. “ _ Fuck _ .”

Gwen stifled a snicker. She looked cute like this. “Could you describe it?”

“It’s… damn it, what’s the word? The  _ hissrads _ , they—” For a moment, the confusion gave way to a scowl. “Quit laughing! This isn’t funny; I’m blanking on the word in Common now too!” She let out a groan and reached up to tug at her left horn. “They, uh, go around to other countries being two-faced shits?”

“Spies?”

“ _ Ben-Hassrath _ !” Salvoth exclaimed, before the word had even left Gwen’s lips. “That’s it.”

Now Gwen frowned. “You think my job would be to go around Thedas being a two-faced shit?” Sure, she’d be good at it, but was that really what Salvoth thought of her? “And what did that other word mean?  _ Hissrid _ ?”

“ _ Hissrad _ ,” Salvoth corrected with a soft tut. “Literally? ‘Keeper of illusions’.”

“A liar,” Gwen murmured, and Salvoth nodded. For the first time in a while, she was reminded of the dwarven merchant she had met in Amaranthine. Sval.  _ Speaking in half-truths is what your type does best.  _ “Alright, I could see that.”

“I thought you would.” At that, Salvoth’s broad grin shrank, and she turned away. “That was basically your job in Ostwick, yeah?”

Gwen shifted uncomfortably. “Among other things.” Salvoth just sighed in response. “...is something wrong?”

“Nothing you need to be concerned about,  _ Lady _ Trevelyan.” Gwen’s stomach twisted, and all her fantasies of spending year after year with this woman faded away. Without her foolish flights of fancy, she was left with a sinking sense of the disparity in their stations. She almost protested, pointed out that she was not a lady anymore. That she likely never would be again. But their lives up until the last week had been so very different, and though Gwen was happy to ignore that fact, if Salvoth was not… “Should we pick up a trot again?”

Gwen jerked in her saddle, causing Bright Dawn to whinny and careen to the side. “Yes,” she said as she tightened her grip on the reins once more. “Yes. Let’s.”

They rode for several hours in silence, took a break to water the horses and eat, and kept going. An hour or so after their break, the river narrowed until it dried up into nothing. The forest swallowed them up again. They kept going, until the sun dipped down below the treeline, and then even further. At times, Gwen wondered if they should stop to make camp, but Salvoth kept them going, and if the two of them had nothing else between them, they at least needed trust.

Eventually, though, the forest broke, interrupted by a road. Or, more of a trail, really, broad and unpaved, but that was most roads in Ferelden as far as Gwen knew.

Salvoth brought Aqun-Athlok Anaan to a halt at the edge of the forest. “Lucky for you, Lady Trevelyan, we’ve found civilization again.”

Gwen stopped Bright Dawn as well. “Is this the Northern Road?”

Salvoth nodded. “I was going to have us cut west further north, but I was thinking— that bear attack did a number on our supplies.” She paused, glancing at Gwen. “The Lake Calenhad docks are just a few miles south; you could cut across, get me some bandages and food, maybe even get yourself some new armor, put some of that rich noble money to good use.”

“My gold supply is not limitless,” Gwen commented. No matter what did happen to her and Glendower after the Conclave, she was likely going to need some of the sovereigns she had taken from Ostwick.

Salvoth rolled her eyes. “No, it’s just larger than mine ever has been. Don’t worry, okay? I’ll cover half of everything except the armor.”

“Alright.” Gwen turned away, facing the road once more. She knew Lydia and the rest of the brigade from Ostwick must have passed through here a few days ago. There was no chance of encountering them now— and yet there was a lingering fear as Gwen considered the possibility of interacting with other humans again. Still, interacting with humans was one of the few things she brought to her partnership with Salvoth, so she said, “What do you need, specifically?”

Not long afterwards, Gwen set out down the road. Soon enough, she turned onto a path which snaked further south, until it dumped her at the top of a hill. Her eyes trained down the slope until the grass hit water. Slowly, she brought her gaze up, and out of the water, it emerged. The Circle tower. Darker than the night itself, austere and skeletal in its design. One could imagine it as a torch, with a flame burning bright at the top. Or perhaps a watchtower, like the center building of the Ostwick Circle.

Or, maybe, if all the stories Gwen had heard were true, it was a funeral pyre.

“Evenin’, ma’am.”

Gwen glanced to the left. A man stood by one of the nearby buildings, a ladder to his right, slate and buckets of something around his feet. If she squinted, she could make out the patch of the roof he must have been repairing.

“Good evening.”

The man immediately scrunched his forehead. “That’s not a Ferelden accent.”

“It isn’t an Orlesian accent either,” Gwen replied with a small smile, “so I’m fairly sure you won’t have any qualms about pointing me the right way.”

“No qualms at all,” he said. “What’re you lookin’ for?”

“A place to tie up my horse for a few hours,” Gwen said, “and a merchant or two,” she glanced across the hill again; a clearing in the buildings suggested some sort of market, but it was deserted now, “if any are still awake.”

He gave her a slight smile. “A bit late for shoppin’, and there aren’t many merchant who come down this way these days, ever since the tower was abandoned.”

A chill wind struck at Gwen’s chest. “Abandoned?”

He nodded. “The mages all went to Redcliffe, and the templars all went to Val Royeaux.”

Gwen looked to the tower once more. For a moment, she held her breath, frightened by the possibility that she might see a light in one of its windows. “And what about the Tranquil?”

“The what?”

A shudder raced down her spine, and she shifted in the saddle. “...never mind.”

The man blinked at her through the darkness before giving a slight shrug. “...anyway, your best bet before sunrise is the inn.” He gestured to the right. Gwen squinted and made out the outline of a tavern sign. “Innkeeper at the Spoiled Princess sells wares out from the bar sometimes— and there’s a paddock behind the building.”

With this information in hand, Gwen found herself on top of a rickety wooden stool in front of a low wooden bar. Most of the inn’s tenants were already in their rooms, and Gwen was alone except for a rowdy party playing Wicked Grace in the back corner, and the innkeeper, a stocky pale man who watched her sit as he wiped a rag across a shot glass.

After a minute, he set the glass down behind the counter. “Can I get you anything?”

“I’m here to trade,” Gwen replied.

He gave a small laugh. “Bit late for that.”

“I’ll make it worth your time,” Gwen assured him, “and if you can’t sell me anything,” she reached into her saddlebag, which hung from one of the rungs of her stool, and pulled out ten silvers; she slid them across the bar, “at least get me a bottle of Antivan red.”

The man eyed the money for a moment before snatching it up. “Oh, I’m certain we can do business, Madame …?”

“Dumar.”

The innkeeper stopped in the middle of counting out the silver pieces, fingers suspended above the coins. Gwen felt something in her stomach start to curl. Of course one day there would be a price to pay for using a real dead woman’s name as her pseudonym, but she hadn’t thought it would be in a common tavern.

“Your first name wouldn’t happen to be Evelyn, would it?”

“Rhiannon.” Another false name slipped off of Gwen’s tongue, easy as honeyed wine. “Evelyn is my sister; we’re travelling together, and she asked me to come into town to replenish our supplies… why do you ask?”

“A letter came for your sister,” he replied, “about a week ago.”

Unable to help herself, Gwen straightened in her seat. There was only one person who would be writing letters to that name.  _ Glendower…  _ “Where was it from?”

“Can’t say.” He reached underneath the counter; first, he pulled out a chipped wine glass, and then an envelope. He tossed the card down the bar, and Gwen caught it between her thumb and forefinger. “Best guess is the raven came from across the Waking Sea, but.”

As he spoke, Gwen turned the letter about in her hands. ‘Evelyn Dumar’ was etched across the back in a neat, narrow black scrawl. As she ran the tips of her fingers over the imprint, she knew that this was not her brother’s handwriting. But who else could have written it? Someone trying to reach the real Evelyn Dumar?  _ Evelyn has been dead for years… _ And yet Gwen was unable to suppress the rise in her pulse as the fleeting fantasy of a world where that was not true wormed through her brain.

Gwen bit down on the inside of her cheek, hard.  _ You were at her funeral.  _ And when she blinked, she could see the other woman’s face framed in blue satin.  _ You saw the body. _

“Did it open?”

Gwen jerked at the noise. She saw the innkeeper staring at the letter closely, even as he poured wine into the glass. She glanced at the letter itself, and as she turned it again, she gave a soft gasp. Holding the envelope shut was a seal unlike anything she had ever seen. Something in the wax was  _ moving _ . An orange glimmer twisting and writhing in the red wax.

“I was wondering what that was,” the innkeeper commented. He set the glass, full to the brim with deep red wine, down in front of Gwen. “Figured it must be magic.”

“Must be,” Gwen murmured, transfixed by the shifting colors.

“Thought it might open by itself if it got in the right hands,” he added.

Gwen nodded, only half-listening. She turned the letter over a few more times, wondering if she should open it now or wait until she got back to Salvoth. But the innkeeper was staring at it so expectantly; it seemed almost rude to deny him the answer to this small bit of wonder.

So she slipped her thumb under the flap, intent on breaking the seal. But with only a light tug, the orange glint intensified into a flash, and the wax started to melt. It turned to sludge, and then a thin liquid which started to run off the envelope before it vanished completely, as if it had dissolved into the air.

“Damn,” the innkeeper whispered.

“Yeah.” Gwen stared at where the seal had been just moments before.

There was a moment of silence before the innkeeper cleared his throat. “I’m gonna go look in the back, see what I have for sale. You can read your sister’s mail in peace, yeah?”

“You were curious too,” Gwen said, her tone a feigned tease. The innkeeper gave her a mischievous smile before shaking his head and ducked out of the room.

And Gwen did read her “sister’s” mail.

But it was not in peace.

By the time the innkeeper came back, Gwen had pulled a loose sheet of parchment out of one of her saddlebags. She had set up an inkwell beside her and begun furiously scribbling across the paper.

“I need you to send a letter to Cumberland.”


End file.
